


New Hope

by AlphaKantSpell



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Homelessness, M/M, a whole bunch of people, homeless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaKantSpell/pseuds/AlphaKantSpell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ivan woke homeless with a hangover he found himself in New Hope, a shelter run by a spzz of an American with more than his share of secrets. RUS/USA. DISCONTINUED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snow Falling

"Oi, wake up. We're closed."

Voices and light mixed and swam together. Shapes and colors bounced through his vision like he was watching a cartoon through a kaleidoscope. Reality blurred into a dizzy fog.

Ivan was drunk.

No, not drunk.

Ivan was smashed.

The Russian peeled his face off the sticky bar counter and blinked sleepily at the bartender. The man had enormous eyebrows and the scowl of an old woman.

A few minutes passed before Ivan's delirious mind could register what was said and translate it. When he did the Russian smiled innocently and ordered another drink.

"I told you, we're closed," seethed the Brit. "Now kindly get out of my pub and go home. You pub and go, now go!"

The caterpillars over his eyebrows furled with anger.

Ivan hiccupped and smiled again when he stood from the bar stool, staggering only the slightest. He left a few coins on the counter and stumbled out of the empty bar - into the cold night air. Technically it was early morning, before sunrise, two-A.M cold air but Ivan wasn't sober enough to know what a technicality was. This was saying quite a lot, Ivan was a heavy drinker and it took a near fatal amount of alcohol to get the large Russian so drunk.

Why did he drink so much?

He couldn't remember. His mind was foggy.

He . . . He was trying to forget something.

What was it . . .?

Ivan shrugged and skipped down the street in search of his apartment. If he had drunken so much to forget (as he now believed) it would be a waste to try and remember. It was better not to squander his efforts.

The behemoth of a man swerved severely as he skipped, falling onto the side of the wall and into the street with equal frequency. He lumbered down the paved road, swinging his large arms as he slid over the icy street. Ivan was unafraid; he was used to snow and ice from living in Russia most of his life and was too drunk to understand its danger.

He kept smiling, singing folksongs with a strong, slurring voice.

Ivan was on top of the world!

He jumped with a high skip and raised his arms like he was on a rollercoaster. The massive Russian skidded over a patch of ice. Ivan swung his arms out to catch himself but found nothing in the empty sidewalk to hold onto.

With a bone jarring crack Ivan smacked the back of his head against the pavement.

The colors stopped dancing as pain shot through Ivan's nerves like hot coals. He cried and swore loudly, though none of the sounds even he made could be heard to his suddenly deaf ears. Ivan staggered and clung to the side of the curb, trying to understand the world around himself. His vision was black and he was unable to hear anything but the blood coursing through his ears.

This was bad.

This was really bad.

The disoriented Russian tried to stand but found his legs unresponsive - like they were made of lead. He could crawl though, and pulled himself along with his arms.

Little by little his vision came back in blotchy patches, but this only made him all the more nauseous.

He wretched on the side of the curb and tried to roll away from it - unintentionally laying flat in the middle of the street.

The world swam again and Ivan's body shook sickly.

There was a bright light that made the Russian groan loudly and cover his eyes. The muffled, exaggerated honk of a car's horn was barley registered.

The car swerved and almost hit a lamp-pole.

"Oh my God, what the hell?! There better be a good reason for you to be playing chicken at frakin' at two-in-the-morning!"

The voice was loud and obnoxious to Ivan's frazzled mind. In fact, it hurt. Ivan actually winced when the American spoke again.

"What the hell?! Did you even hear me?"

Ivan groaned again and laid his head on the pavement.

So many noises! Everything hurt!

". . . Hey, are you okay?"

Ivan shook his head, ignoring the throbbing pain.

His vision was still black but the next thing the Russian could understand was that he was being carried; an impressive feat for who ever was carrying him since Ivan was so dense. He closed his eyes as he heard sound of a seat belt being buckled.

"Stay awake!" hissed the American, tying a cloth torn from his own shirt around Ivan's head. He guided the Russian's enormous hands to the now damp tourniquet to stop the bleeding.

Ivan was barley able to comply.

The American buckled into his own seat, driving quickly enough for Ivan to get sick again.

"Hey, keep it on your side," chided the American in alarm.

Ivan pressed his face against the side of the glass.

His body ached for sleep and he drifted off.

"I said say awake!" the American shouted, shaking Ivan's shoulder. The taller man whined like a child.

"Come on, open your eyes!" If he wasn't so delirious Ivan would have heard the agitation in the Americans voice. Slowly, sleepily, Ivan blinked.

"I've never seen that color before. Did you get it from your mom or dad?"

Conversation.

Why was this American so talkative?

Couldn't he tell Ivan just wanted to sleep?

"Talk to me! Open your eyes!"

Ivan groaned when they turned a sharp corner.

"Grandfather," he finally answered, voice weak.

"Alright, progress," cheered the American, rolling down the windows to clear out the smell of vomit. After it was gone he blasted the heater. Although trying to sooth Ivan the quick change in temperature just made him ill.

"What's your name?"

They passed over a pothole that jarred the car violently enough for the distressed Russian to cry out.

"My name is Alfred F. Jones."

"Ivan." He gagged dryly. "Ivan Braginski."

"That means your Russian, right?" Then as an afterthought, "That explains your crazy accent."

Ivan was too tired to comment on the American's lack of tact and made a noise Alfred had to assume meant yes. He closed his eyes again.

"Ivan, wake up! We're almost there! Come on man, what's your favorite color?"

Color?

God, how stupid was this American?

Why did he want to know something like that?

…What was his favorite color? His head felt terrible! How was he supposed to remember something as trivial as his favorite color?

"Red," he answered weakly, recalling. "Red."

"Awesome, my favorite is blue." They turned another corner. "What's your favorite season."

"Summer," Ivan replied instantly. Alfred chuckled.

"See, we have more in common than you'd think. What's your favorite time of the day?"

Ivan groaned and closed his eyes, only to be shaken awake again.

"Come on Ivan, tell me your favorite time` of the day."

"I don't know," the Russian replied sickly. He blinked furiously. He could only just make out the outline of his rescuer/kidnapper. "Morning, if I have to choose, yes."

"Personally I like lazy afternoons but mornings are alright."

If Ivan could see clearly he would have seen Alfred's worried expression.

"How long have you been in the US?"

The Russian made a noise of agitation as he tried to remember. "I don't know - five, maybe six months."

"Ah, a noob," Alfred smiled as he pulled into the driveway to the Hospital. "Welcome to America, Ivan Braginski."

~O~O~O~O~

It had been several hours later before Ivan was allowed to sleep. Alfred told the guard at the parking lot what was wrong with the Russian and within a few minutes an emergency crew and a stretcher were sent. The American was given a torough scolding about moving a patient (since this could aggravate or cause worse injury) and that he should have just called an ambulance.

Ivan smirked through his daze.

It was like watching a childhood bully get what they deserved.

Although this was the first time Ivan had felt the emotion - he was usually the bully.

The next few hours were spent with constant prodding, an MRI, questioning, and being stuck with various I.V.s. They would have pumped his stomach if it weren't for the fact that Ivan had already puked twice. It was almost noon by the time the Russian was allowed to sleep, and even then he was woken after four short hours.

Dr. Honda was a small, modest Japanese man, young in both age and carrier; but when it came to his patients he was above and beyond anyone else.

He woke Ivan, ignoring the Russian's complaints.

"Mr. Braginski, we have to go over a few things," said Dr. Honda sternly, taking a seat by Ivan's bed. The small male had very dark gray eyes, virtually no light passed through them. Ivan went about his best to ignore the doctor, playing with the nurse call button. The last time the haggard nurse came in he just smiled at her sweetly and said that he forgot why he called her (which was a lie - he had only called to mess with her). "Mr. Jones said that he would be willing to pay for all of your hospital bills so you don't need to worry about that for now, but we checked with your contact numbers and we found. . . troubling complications."

"Complications?" wondered Ivan, sitting up in the stiff hospital bed.

~O~O~O~O~

An Eviction notice.

An eviction notice was posted on the door to his apartment - to the door of his locked apartment.

So that's why he was drinking so much.

Ivan swore loudly in his mother language and sat on his former porch. It creaked metallically and some of the green paint chipped off. Ivan huffed aggressively and shoved his hands into his pockets. His head still throbbed from both the concussion and the numbing hangover from binging the night before. He'd spent the last of his money on said binging, had no friends to rely on, and his only family was half a world away.

He was out of a house, out of a job, and out money.

The only thing he had to his name were the clothes on his back and the spare change in his pockets.

. . . and a card.

Ivan quirked an eyebrow and pulled a small business card out of his pocket. The front side had an American flag and the back side said "New Hope Homeless-Shelter", along with Alfred's full name, contact numbers and address.

Do you believe in miracles!

Ivan stared at the card and blinked.

What. The. Hell.

So the man who rescued him ran a homeless-shelter? What were the odds of that?

He wrinkled his nose and wished he had more vodka.

~O~O~O~O~

Luckily for Ivan the New Hope Homeless-Shelter was not terribly far from his Ex-apartment. Still, it was a long walk for the recently hospitalized man. By the time he got to the front steps the sun had already set. The light left behind was a temporary twilight that was already fading.

The Shelter was a large, welcoming building with a fresh coat of paint and a very happy looking sign. There were blue-frosted flower beds all around the shelter that were crumpled underneath places where there had been obvious repainting.

Must have been to cover up graffiti, Ivan mused, walking through the front door.

Instantly warmth enveloped him. His cheeks and nose stung numbly with the sudden heat, and Ivan could feel his fingertips tingling in their gloves. He smiled gently at the feeling and continued in the direction he assumed was to the front desk.

The linolieum tiled floor was incredibly shiny and the walls were off white, yellowed with age. There were plastic plants in the corners and the building made its own muffled echo like the inside of an empty bottle. The sound of the heater hummed overhead.

Despite all these things, Ivan liked the place. It felt like home. . . in a weird, phony way.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked a kind, if tiny voice, getting his attention. The Russian turned and saw the owner to the voice, a sweet looking girl (in her late teens) with long dark brown hair pulled into two flowing pigtails. Her tanned skin seemed out of place in the cold city but her kind smile fit the mood of the homeless-shelter.

Ivan returned her smile with a small, child-like one, and approached the front desk.

The woman looked a little afraid of him (which was a normal response) but managed to keep a polite grin.

"Welcome to New Hope Homeless-Shelter, is there something I can help you with sir?" Her voice had an African accent.

"I found this in my pocket, yes," replied Ivan, pulling out the card he found earlier. The girl took it and made an expression Ivan couldn't quite place. She stared at the Russian with big wide eyes.

"By any chance is your name Ivan?"

The Russian smiled and nodded. This had been a good idea. Americans were nicer than most made them out to be.

"Were you run over yesterday?" the girl asked, voice in all seriousness.

Ivan blinked.

What was it with this country and losing your sense of tact?

"I was not," he answered, feeling a little uncomfortable.

"Oh! I am sorry!" the girl blushed brightly, horror replacing her curious expression. "My boss wouldn't stop talking about this Russian he apparently rescued last night and I was worried that he might have accidentally run over the man and just skipped on that detail! You see, he's not exactly the best driver in the world."

The two stared at each other, the girl extremely embarrassed and the large man wondering if it would have been better just to sleep on the streets.

Luckily before either had a chance to say anything else none other than Alfred F. Jones strode into the room, bursting through the front double-doors like he was in a heroic action movie.

"I'm here to kick ass and be a Hero and I'm all out of ass!" he exclaimed proudly, taking a superhero pose.

Luckily for the girl, what Alfred proclaimed was awkward enough for Ivan to forgive anything she had said.

The three said nothing and stared at each other, the sunny American quickly losing him confidence. His bright smile slipped as his glasses slid off his nose. Alfred pushed them back into place and stared at the Russian, his smile brightening again.

"Ivan?" he wondered aloud, pulling his face into exaggerated curiosity. "Is that you?"


	2. Catch and Release

Seeing the American without the veil of alcohol or concussion was a strange thing. Although shorter than Ivan, Alfred F. Jones was a tall, fit, scratchy young man who would be quite at home in a World War II Bomber movie. He had a sturdy build, straw hair (in shape and color), and the cleanest sky blue eyes the Russian had ever seen. Everything about the American was pure, adventurous, and kind.

His clothes, however. . .A bomber jacket, an old faded blue t-shirt (with the word "Epic!" written over it), blue-wash denim jeans, and stained old boots did not an outfit make.

Ivan had a better wardrobe - and he was homeless (ignoring the fact that it had been for only one day so far).

Deciding it would be more productive to be kind than to be uncomfortable, Ivan smiled. "It is good to see you again, comrade," the Russian greeted.

"Ivan! It is you!" the American cheered, giving Ivan a strong slap on his shoulder. "Good to see you upright. When'd you get out of the hospital? Why are you here anyway? I told you not to worry about the hospital bill, I've already signed away the check."

Ivan's smile strained a little.

"I left the hospital this afternoon, and when I went home I was surprised with an eviction notice, yes. I found your card next and came here." The Russian's false smile stayed in place through the whole conversation.

"Ah, I was thinking you might be a little down on your luck. I didn't want to be rude but I thought I might be able to help." Alfred nodded at what he saw as his own genius. "Glad to see it worked out."

"Yes, it was good timing," Ivan agreed. The blond laughed, hands on his hips like a superhero, voice loud and annoying . Despite how much it grated on the ears, Ivan felt an odd desire to find situations where the American would laugh again….and the other part of him wanted to smack the idiot upside the head to make him stop.

Through the conversation the girl kept watching back and forth from Alfred to Ivan, eyes wide and expectant.

"Was there something you were wanting, Mr. Jones?" she asked, sitting back in her chair behind her desk. Now that her earlier embarrassment was over she could focus on her job.

"Huh?" Alfred blinked absently. "Oh, right! I came in here, the epic hero I am, to tell you that you can take your break now if you'd like and eat dinner with us."

Us? Who was us?

Ivan tilted his head to the side, feeling quite forgotten.

"Oh, that'd be wonderful, thank you Mr. Jones!" the girl chirped with a wide smile, making Alfred smirk.

"No worries, what kind of hero would I be if I let a girl stave?" he laughed again, only this time with less confidents. "Besides, if your uncle saw I wasn't treating your right I'd starve for sure."

The girl laughed along with him. "That's for sure, you're a terrible cook." The two continued to giggle, making Ivan feel even more lost than before.

Yes, he should have just slept on the street, snow be damned.

Noticing the Russian's long expression Alfred turned back to him with a bright smile.

"My bad, sorry. Let me show you around, I think we still have an open bed you can take for the night." He started walking, nudging Ivan along; which the Russian did not appreciate.

Ivan could walk just fine, unlike the happy American. He was bouncing from one foot to the other. It was annoying…and endearing at the same time. He was like a faun who couldn't say in one place for more than a moment before getting bored and hopping along.

As they walked Alfred explained the house rules. The shelter closed down after ten AM and opened again at five PM. During the closed hours it was expected of a person to look for a job or to work. A daycare was provided for children and paying jobs were available for five people each day to help clean the shelter - first come , first served. Curfew was at eleven thirty PM and after that no one was allowed in the shelter - no exceptions.

And ten there were the usual rules, no drugs, no sex, no violence, and to Ivan's disappointment, no alcohol. Doing any of these tins led to permanent expulsion; no exceptions.

Alfred wanted New open to be a safe and friendly environment, and he'd stop at nothing to keep it that way.

"Dinner is going to be served in about twenty minutes," Alfred said with a satisfied nod. "We're lucky enough to have Chell's uncle make dinner today. He's this award winning cook, his food is awesome. I'm a friend of his so I've been able to get him to cook for us out of guilt every once in a while." He gave Ivan another bright smile. "Oh, Chell's the worker at the front - she started working here part time when she moved in with her uncle to help pay for rent. She comes from this little island off Africa, like Madagascar or something."

"You have a habit of talking too much, yes," noted the Russian with a joyful grin.

Alfred gaped at him and pouted. "Just trying to make conversation buddy. You look like you need it." He stuck his hands in his bomber jacket.

Ivan frowned.

It looked like he needed conversation? If anything he needed vodka and a nice warm bed. And sunflowers. Sunflowers would cheer him up.

"Is this your first time? Being homeless?"

Lack of tact!

"I was for a time in Russia, but that was when I was a child. My elder sister cared for Natalya and I."

He missed his sister's dearly, but would never dare tell the American that. All of

Katyusha's life had been spent saving up money for them to travel to America, the so called land of dreams. In the end there was only enough money for Ivan to leave, and so he did with the intention of sending money back for his sisters to join him.

Then bills piled up and the economy fell and before he knew it he was evicted.

The dream turned into a nightmare.

Alfred nodded, having never stopped wal

king. The further they went into the building the more crowded it became. Alfred showed him the restrooms, the showers, and the cot room. The last stop on the tour was the dinning hall, a large room set up like a buffet. There were more people than ever in the room, all eagerly awaiting dinner. They were all from different walks of life, young, old, clean, dirty, part of a big family, or all alone.

The chatter was loud, several different languages all being spoken in a fast, happy tone. There was laughter, there was sorrow, and there was hope.

"The crowds here always remind me of Disney Land!" Alfred had to strain his voice to be heard over the crowd even through he was standing right next to Ivan. ". . .Well, without all the cool rides and mascots, but who needs those?"

Ivan stared at the American, amazed with both his optimism and stupidity. In the end he decided not to comment, too busy watching Alfred bounce around and visit with the shelter's other members. He smiled and met everyone with equal enthusiasm, but by far he was most excited to talk with the children.

He squatted to their level, and they talked about everything and nothing. They

exchanged jokes and stories, and despite how much they mumbled Alfred knew what they said and enjoyed every minute of it.

"Mom got a job today. She said that were going to move in with my aunt so she can get to work easier."

"That's great!" Alfred looked up directly at the woman in question. She hummed with laughter as both her son and Alfred smiled at her. "Grats!"

"Thank you Mr. Jones, we'll be out of your hair soon enough." The woman was practically beaming with pride. "Well leave first thing tomorrow."

"Wow! So soon!" Alfred cheered, standing up. "Just remember to come back and help out sometime."

"Most definitely," the woman agreed, nodding.

Alfred laughed and walked back to Ivan.

"If you want help finding a job we have a consultant here who can set you up biased on your preferences."

Ivan nodded but wasn't quite paying attention. The spunky American noticed this and fell into an uncharacteristic silence.

"Stick around Ivan," Alfred said, stepping out of line. "Ill talk more about this later, I have to help out the kitchen crew for now." He gave the Russian one last big and encouraging smile before bounding off behind closed doors. Ivan watched him go, marveling at the odd emptiness that was left in the wake of such an energetic personality's departure.

Dinner was at last served, and there was an orderly rush to get the food. Ivan didn't mind. He let all the other, more hungry people rush past him. His eyes unfocused as he thought. His smile strained to stay in place.

Why was he here?

Ivan did not like taking hand outs. Ivan did not like being cared for. Ivan did not like homeless-shelters.

Most of all, Ivan did not like spunky Americans who bounced around and pretended that all was right with the world.

Ivan stepped out of line.

Then he stepped out of the house and back into the cold.

He peered over his shoulder at the New Hope Homeless-Shelter one last time and warmed his hands. The sun had fully set as Ivan started walking away, weariness weighing him down like sack of potatoes.

Well, when life gave you potatoes life was giving you a chance to make vodka.

~O~O~O~O~

"I think I'm in love," Alfred whispered huskily, licking his lips. Francis stared at the American, trying to decide if he should be honored or horrified. He sided with laughing at the blond and taking the seat across from him.

"Just eat it before it cools too much, non?" smirked the elegant man. With a stylish flick of his wrist the Frenchman folded his napkin over his lap. On the other side of the table Chell clapped at her uncle's actions before she began eating her own dinner.

Dinner had been long since served and most of the residents to New Hope turned in for the night. Ivan, Alfred noticed, was not one of them.

The dinning hall was quiet and empty without it's usual hustle and bustle. All the chairs and tables had been neatly stacked away, leaving their single table alone in the large room. Most of the lights had been turned off.

A clock ticked, the soft noise echoing through the emptiness.

It was quiet, but not uncomfortable.

"You're a cooking God! You know that, right?" Alfred moaned in delight as he ate Francis' restaurant grade dinner. Francis hummed with laughter at Alfred's dance of delight.

He was acting like a child again. It was hard to imagine that such a young man ran such a successful homeless-shelter. It helped that he was charismatic when he needed to be to get the donations they needed..

Francis popped the cork off a wine bottle he brought just for the dinner and was surprised to see Alfred glaring.

"What?" he huffed indignantly, poring some of the wine. "Do you want some? I'm not going to give it to Chell if you're worried about that."

Alfred crossed his arms. Francis glanced at his niece for a clue as to what was wrong but the silly girl just smiled at him sheepishly and flattened out her dress.

"No alcohol is allowed in here," Alfred sternly said, expression solid. Francis almost dropped his wine glass (almost - he was far to beautifully coordinated to do a silly, un-fabulous thing like that).

"Mon dieu! This is not alcohol!" Francis tossed his long hair over one shoulder with a hefty sigh. "This is wine."

To his horror Alfred had the audacity to laugh at him.

"Sorry Francis, but rules are rules. No alcohol is allowed in New Hope."

The Frenchman stared at his American counterpart, and brought the glass to his lips. Alfred shot from his chair and lunged over the table to knock the glass out of the stubble-clad man's hand. Francis leaned back in his chair and out of reach, smirking at Alfred.

"But I am your cook," Francis noted with a sly grin. "I am a cooking God, to quote you."

Alfred pouted. "Come on, Francis! If I let your drink something what's stopping me from making the next guy spit out his booze?"

The American sat back in his chair and took the wine bottle hostage. In retaliation Francis started eating Alfred's dinner. The American gaped in horror.

"Chell! Make him stop! He's eating all the good parts!" he cried, sounding as mature as a four year old with his whinny voice. Chell giggled at him, making the American cry all the more. Francis huffed dramatically.

"Alright, alright! I surrender," he exclaimed, putting his glass down. "Please, Alfred, stop whining like that. You remind me too much mon petitMathieu!"

Alfred whooped, tossing his hands in the air. "Hurray! Having a wimpy brother who's in love with a sexy foreign chef pays off again!"

Francis chuckled and shook his head. Chell joined in laughing along. "You, Alfred, are lucky that your adorable brother was not able to make it to dinner tonight." Mathew, Alfred's twin brother and Francis' boyfriend was a professional hockey player. Lately his team's practice was taking longer than usual, sometimes not ending until nearly midnight. Out of affection hunger Francis started cooking meals for Alfred.

The American had come home one day after a late shift to find the Frenchman had set an entire dinner out, roses and all.

It was a temporary situation, one they both agreed not to mention. Francis loved affection and Alfred loved food. It was as simple as that.

"Mr. Jones, I've been meaning to ask…" Chell started when it seemed no one was going to speak. Alfred perked up and showed that he was attentive (a fork dangling out of his mouth). "…About that man from earlier." Francis, intrigued, looked over. "The big one."

Francis laughed. "Oh, Alfred, you never told me you had a big friend."

Alfred rolled his eyes and ignored the Frenchman's implications. "Yeah, what about him?"

"Well, I didn't see him in the dinning hall, and he's pretty hard to miss."

Alfred nodded, then shrugged, taking another forkful of penne before answering.

"I dunno, I told him to stay and he just left. Honestly I'm a little worried about the guy. He fell pretty hard last night. I don't even think he should be out of the hospital, let alone wandering the streets." Alfred put down the fork, putting his elbows on the table so he could rest his chin in his hands.

Francis chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is a sight I never thought I would see; Alfred Jones refusing his dinner? Tell me, Alfred, how did your big friend hurt his head last night and why are you so distressed?"

Alfred bristled as a blush heated is cheeks. "Well - well - shut up!" he stammered, stabbing his pasta with an over aggressive hand. "He was drunk and he fell into the street so I took him to the hospital -"

"Please tell me you didn't, you could have paralyzed the man."

"I know already!" Alfred huffed and poked his food with less vigor. "He was really bad, he puked in my car."

To show his distaste, Francis pushed his meal away with a grimace.

"So tell me, where is this grand monstre now?"

Alfred shrugged again. "Out there, I guess. . ." He took a sip of his milk glass and stared at the grooves in the plastic false wood table. He tapped his fingers as the hint of a smile twitched onto his lips. "But man, he had the coolest eyes! Did you see them Chell?! They were purple! How weird is that?"

To show his excitement he took another bite of his pasta

Francis laughed and shook his head. "That is it. Lock up for us Chell, we will return at the most in a few hours," he said, setting his silverware and napkin on the table.

"Wut?" wondered Alfred, his question mumbled by the food in his mouth. Francis ignored the poor dinning habit and shoed Alfred out of his chair. "Cool it Francis, I'm eating!"

"You can eat later, there will always be food later," said Francis, ushering the American out of the room. Chell bid her goodbye and wished them good luck.

"Good luck? Good luck with what?!" snarled Alfred, straightening out his jacket with a jerk.

"With searching for my new brother in-law. I do not want him freezing to death in this weather, especially if he has a head injury," replied Francis, to his shiny new, expensive car at a brisk march. "This way Alfred, we're taking my car."

"Wait, brother in-law?!" The American blushed and stammered. "Who said anything about a brother in-law?!"

Francis gave the American a look that summed up how much he cared about what Alfred thought and took the driver's seat. Alfred huffed and joined the Frenchman.


	3. Between a Rock and ...Er..Ehm

Alfred drummed his fingers on the side of the car door. Light and shadow phased over the car as they sped down the street, passing under lamp poles. A few cars were still driving around, an even fewer number of pedestrians since it was so late. Only the vague outline of the moon could be seen through the light pollution as the sleepy city rested none too sleepily.

Alfred sighed and played with the window, rolling it down and back up again.

"Alfred, stop," chided Francis, pausing in his karaoke of a very, very French sounding song. He didn't want the American to hurt his precious Porsche.

The American let out a dramatic huff and tossed his hands in the air to signal surrender. Francis smirked but kept his eyes on the road.

It had been an hour, and they had yet to find the missing Russian. Alfred felt their mission was impossible. Ivan could be anywhere - in a house, in a pub, in the police station, or even face down in a gutter somewhere. The world was big, and they were only checking what they could see from the streets.

It was pointless.

"Where did that fighting American spirit go?" hummed Francis when Alfred spoke what he was thinking.

"Can you turn the heater off? It's like a sauna in here," Alfred sulked, crossing his arms.

Francis rolled his eyes and adjusted the temperature of the car.

Alfred sighed and stared out the window at the buildings and other cars zooming by.

~O~O~O~O~

Ivan was cold.

In fact, Ivan was frozen solid.

True, America wasn't as cold as Russia but he had grossly underestimated how frigid the nation could be.

His stomach growled with a loud gurgle, upset with him for skipping out on dinner. The giant Russian stared at his abdomen pityingly and patted his empty belly.

He was hungry and exhausted, having not eaten anything the day before since he escaped the hospital before they could feed him. And Ivan had been walking himself to death all day. He walked to the apartment - his Ex-apartment from the hospital; he walked to the New Hope Homeless-Shelter; and from New Hope he had walked to where he was now. . . curled up on a dirty stone bench.

Ivan couldn't even fully lay on the bench, his large arms and legs falling off the side and his head resting against the arm of the bench. It was uncomfortable and felt like he was lying on an awkward block of ice.

He wished it was Summer. . . and that he had vodka. . . and sunflowers, but that was it, really!

He was okay with being homeless.

He was. . .okay. . .

"Hey, buddy, you shouldn't sleep there."

Ivan sat up, back irritated from lying on the hard stone. The voice that had spoken to him came from a dark alleyway. Looking closer he could actually see five

people huddled in the crooked ally. They were all dressed for a cold night, thick jackets, gloves, and hats obscuring much of their form and skin. Their shoulders were hung and their clothes dirty.

They were so stereotypically homeless with their fingerless gloves Ivan was surprised they didn't have a garbage can fire near by.

"You can't sleep there," another voice repeated, female and aged. The figure that spoke warmed her hands. "This city doesn't like the homeless. If you sleep out in the open like that then Haters will get'cha."

Haters?

Ivan pulled a face. Who were the Haters?

"I am big, yes. I can take care of my self," chirped the Russian. He'd lived in the Soviet Union - he would be fine.

A few members of the group laughed, though it was a mocking, pitying sound. Ivan found himself oddly missing Alfred's idiotic, glass shattering chortle.

"Suit yourself. We're going to the park. I suggest you join us, less you wanna get beaten."

Ivan lay back down, using that as his response. He had only just made it to the bench. Walking all the way to some park with a bunch of strangers while he was teetering into an unconscious state really didn't sound like a good idea.

He was just so tired.

His arms and legs ached and shook as sleep overtook him. He dreamed of a warm field with sunflowers as tall as trees. Natalia and Katyusha were with. He was at last living his dream. The air was warm and his family was one with him.

Ivan was happy.

~O~O~O~O~

"Shouldn't we be getting back? I'm sure your 'mon petit Mathieu' will be worried for you," said Alfred, imitating Francis' voice with a snooty accent and vague hand gestures.

He was irritated at being dragged out on another wild goose chase of love.

Francis was always trying to set him up with dates, ever since the man started going steady with Mathew. It was charming for the first week but that was almost four years ago. Sometimes the single minded Frenchman set him up with three dates a day or even all at the same time. He'd introduced Alfred to nearly every member of Francis' own family and everyone in the city (both males and female).

Alfred had turned down almost all of them. He just. . . Wasn't up to dating for a while. And he was okay with that. The American was content just how he was.

Francis, on the other hand, was dead-set on finding Alfred's significant other.

Something about him wanting to go on a double date.

As always Francis was an affection whore.

The chef was about to rebuke the American for his crude (and inaccurate) imitation when his iphone rang, singing out a French song with very dirty lyrics. It was the personalized song for Francis' favorite Canadian (despite said boyfriend's protests for Francis to change it).

Francis immediately turned off the music and turned on his Bluetooth.

"I was just thinking about you, mon cheri!" Francis sang loud enough to drown out Alfred's groan. The Frenchman hastened to inform Mathew of their rescue mission. . .and then his day, and how rude people had been to him, and how much he missed his little lover. Then he started cooing little phrases in French, and soon he was purring huskily.

"Don't say dirty things in French like I'm not even here!" snapped Alfred, disgusted with the direction the innocent conversation had turned.

Really, he didn't need to know about his twin's sex life, even if he couldn't understand the language it was in.

Francis guffawed and switched to English. Alfred paled while Mathew screeched into the phone for Francis to stop. The Frenchman only laughed all the more, taking the Bluetooth out of his ear so he wouldn't go deaf.

Ten minutes and several apologies later Alfred was sulking and Francis returned to cooing into the cell phone. It seemed nothing eventful was going to happen when at last Francis had grown tired of searching for the man Alfred didn't seem terribly interested in finding. Francis missed his sweet little Mathieu, and said that they were coming home soon.

"Finally," whooped the American. "You owe me a burger after this."

Francis rolled is eyes. "Mon amie, what you need is a good salad." He eyed Alfred's somewhat chubby frame with a disapproving glance.

"Hey! I'm not fat," he complained. "I'm just big boned." He pouted. "And I don't need a salad, I need you to - -!"

Something caught his eye. Alfred pressed his face against the glass as they zoomed by. He gasped.

"STOP!" he cried, wheeling his frantic gaze on Francis. "Stop! Go back! Go back!"

"What? What?" demanded Francis, though he complied and turned the car around at the nearest appropriate place.

It wasn't fast enough for the American. He was bouncing in his seat with anticipation and had a grin that Francis recognized.

The chef smirked.

Mission Complete, Alfred had his "hero" smile again.

"Stop, stop!" He ordered, and Francis slowed the car to a crawl. He drove up to a bench, and sure enough the elusive yeti of a man was there.

Wow. He was bigger than Francis had imagined. But, none the less, he was handsome. Francis could tell, even with the man sleeping in an uncomfortable angle in the sickly yellow light of a lamp post. Besides, the grin on the American's face was more than enough to make the trip worthwhile.

Before the car could even stop Alfred unbuckled from his seat and jumped out of the car, rolling onto the pavement.

Francis stared. And rolled his eyes.

His American friend had watched one too many action movies.

Alfred stood and with an uncoordinated attempt at being suave, styled his now messy hair back. At least he hadn't fallen on any gum. He'd always wanted to jump out of a moving car (at least once in his life).

"Yo, Ivan, long time no see," he greeted when he approached the sleeping giant.

Oh….he was sleeping…

Well….This was awkward.

Alfred shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Ivan must have been cold. It was freezing out here! Sure it wasn't snowing but that didn't mean the air wasn't cold.

Francis pulled the car up to the side of the bench. The curb was yellow so he didn't park. The Frenchman wasn't too happy with having to leave his car running when it didn't have to - or maybe he was just angry with Alfred being an idiot.

"He's asleep!" Alfred hissed in a whisper. Francis shook his head in disbelief.

"Then wake him up."

"I don't know how!"

Francis, losing his patience, honked the horn of his car.

The loud, irritating note echoed in the stillness of the night.

Alfred could have covered his ears but that would be un-heroic. But he did jump.

And so did Ivan. The Russian bolted upright, nearly falling off his bench. His breath was strong and rapid as he stared at Alfred with sleep fogged eyes. His eyelids fluttered as he blinked, not unlike a child with a snowflake caught in his eyelashes.

The expression was gone in an instant and his eyes narrowed.

The two stared, regarding each other like warriors preparing for battle.

Ivan really was a giant; like a bear trying to impersonate a human. His shoulders were huge and his paws were large enough to fully cover Alfred's face. And the way he carried himself, he had an odd gate, a loping one but one with purpose in each step. The man was strong, and Alfred wondered what his musculature was like under the bulky clothes he wore now.

But there was something off about him.

He smiled so kind, almost like a sweet old grandmother, and yet the warmth did not reach his eyes.

There was a coldness about the Russian, like a poltergeist of frost had always been looming over him.

It was…sad, Alfred decided. And he didn't like people to feel sad. That was why he had started the New Hope Homeless-Shelter in the first place - to help those who needed it.

Alfred liked to be the hero, and his protective instincts were screaming at him to help the sorry man in front of him.

"You again," Ivan breathed, suspicion written over his face. "That car honk, it was like a dying animal." He nodded to himself as an innocent smile hid his emotions. "Much like your own voice, yes."

"Shut it, bastard!" Alfred hisses, taking the baited offence. "Is that any way to talk to your second time rescuer." He pointed an accusing finger at Ivan. The Russian chuckled.

"I'd rathher not be rescued by you again, comrade. You could have paralyzed me last time."

"Why does everyone bring that up?!" The American grumbled, fixing is glasses. "Besides, that's all in the past now! I'm here to rescue you properly!" He struck a comic book pose, eyes proud. "Now come back with me to the New hope Homeless-Shelter, where you can have a warm bed and a hot meal!"

Ivan smiled but did not move. He laid back down the most comfortable position the bench would allow.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!"

Alfred glared and stomped his foot - a trait he had picked up from Mathew.

He did not just ignore Alfred F. Jones!

"And you see, comrade, that is where our ambitions differ," the Russian said, one eye open to stare at Alfred with an old man's pity. "You see, I would be much happier if you left, yes. Your voice is quite harmful to the ears."

Alfred fumed. "Hey! Stand up and insult me properly you jerk! I came all the way out here in the middle of the night to rescue you from wild dogs and rapists!"

Ivan sniggered and sat up straight, the effect making him look really creepy. "If anyone is a rapist then it is you, comrade. Trying to get me to into your car."

Alfred crossed his arms and gave the Russian a wounded expression.

"I'm the hero! The hero can't be a rapist - that's so un-heroic!"

Besides, if he was a rapist then Ivan would probably snap him in two with his monster hands.

Francis honked the horn, getting impatient. Ivan gave Alfred a haughty grin. It irritated the American all the more, the stupid gloating bastard was making him look bad.

"Go with your friend, I do not need rescuing."

Francis honked the horn again.

"Just give me a minute!" he shouted back at the Frenchmen. Alfred knew that what ever he said to the Russian in these next few minutes would influence the rest of the stranger's life. Hell, he could be on his way to suicide for all the American knew.

"Call me when you are finished," Francis snapped back, driving away. "Alfred you have a half hour! And Ivan, it was a pleasure to meet you."

The two watched the Frenchman leave, a little shocked by his outburst (Alfred, especially since Francis had been the one most intent on finding Ivan)

Ivan glanced back at Alfred, then lay down again.

"Hey, I'm still talking to you," grumbled the blonde, giving the bench a half hearted kick.

Ivan's reply were a few whispered phrases in his mother tongue. The Russian's voice was beautiful, exotic, and unlike most anything Alfred had ever heard before.

But the tone and the situation which the words were muttered (most definitely in mocking) upset the American enough to curse and kick the bench again.

So much for a motivational speech.

Left with no other options the American did what he knew best, be a pain. He sat down on the far side of the bench, on top of Ivan's shins. The Russian cracked one of his eyelids open and glared at the spunky blond. The lavender eyed man muttered again in Russian, though his tone was much angrier than his previous statements.

"Sorry, I can't speak Russian," Alfred told him, smiling like he was oblivious to why Ivan would be upset.

"You annoy me, leave," the large man complained, tone sleepy and upset.

"You heard Francis, I'm stuck here for half an hour, and I don't want to stand that long." To prove his statement he massaged his legs (like they really hurt) and shuffled his weight on the larger man, much to the Russian's displeasure.

"You are fat and heavy, get off," Ivan snapped. Alfred sent him a hurt, kicked puppy look.

"Take that back, bastard! You're the fat one, you're huge!"

He crossed his arms and pulled his legs into a "pretzel style".

"See, you are so fat you cannot even move your legs properly," Ivan mocked. Alfred dug his boots into Ivan's already uncomfortable legs and made the Russian glare all the more. In retribution Ivan jostled his legs, knocking Alfred off balance.

The blond and would have fallen off the bench if not for holding onto the sides like a startled cat. He kicked at the Russian playfully as Ivan found himself with an unfortunate smile.

Damn childish American. If it was anyone else Ivan would have punched him.

There was just something unusual about this one - something that made you want to smack him, laugh at him, laugh with him, and hold him close.

"Quit moving!" Alfred demanded, laughter in his voice.

"Stop being an idiot," replied Ivan.

~O~O~O~O~

When Francis returned home he couldn't wait any longer to embrace his darling Mathieu. He tiptoed down the hall, past Chell's bedroom (his niece had moved in about a month ago) with a bouquet of red and pink roses in hand (he'd stopped by his favorite flower shop on the way). The lights in his and Mathew's fancy apartment were either dimmed or turned off, the brightest one coming from the living room. The soft sound of romantic music and voices hummed through the house. Mathew was watching another romance movie, and as always the young Canadian was watching with the volume almost muted.

The meek blond had a great dislike of loud noises. Whenever he watched action movies (very rarely and almost always when Alfred got on his knees and begged) it was muted and with subtitles.

Mathew never ceased to amaze Francis. His lover was so quiet, so shy, so gentle, and yet on the ice he was a demon, feared and revered like a war god.

"Francis, is that you?" Mathew called, voice barley audible over the quiet movie.

"Yes my darling !" sang Francis, skipping into the room. "Did you miss me, mon cher? I hungered for you like a starving man! Life without you in it is so dull, so meaningle - -!"

When Francis turned the corner he found his darling love had his right arm was in a cast, several signatures and get well messaged over it.

Francis dropped the bouquet and gaped.

"Mathew! When did this happen?! Why didn't you tell me?!"

The Frenchman rushed over and inspected the wound, muttering and tutting like a mother hen. Mathew laughed and explained it was an accident from one of his teammates. He had almost told Francis but didn't want to interrupt because of how much fun he was having with Alfred. When Francis threatened revenge on the man who had harmed his lover Mathew calmed him down, telling Francis that his teammate was already getting Hell from their coach.

"The only reason this man is not dead is because you would be upset," Frtancis declared, kissing his lover's hand.

"I'm sure, Francis, I'm sure."

He doubted Francis would harm a fly but that was besides that point.

"So how did your search and rescue go?" the Canadian asked, trying to distract Francis from his wound.

The Frenchman paused in his kisses, and stared at Mathew, expression like a cold computer trying to process a request.

REBOOT. REBOOT. REBOOT.

The Canadian frowned. Neither spoke, but the actors in the movie Mathew was watching were in a heated love scene.

"…About that -"

"You forgot my brother, didn't you?"

Francis sealed his lips, trying to think a way out of sleeping on the couch.

"I got you roses!"

"Francis!"

"I was starving for your love, mon amour~"

"Don't you mon amour me, Francis."

~O~O~O~O~

Everything was cold. Everything was numb. His fingers were frozen, his ears and the rest of his extremities felt like icicles. There was one source of heat, and Alfred snuggled into it, mewling a little at how wonderful the warmth was.

". . .ed. . ."

There was a noise. It was tiny and muffled so he ignored it.

". . .Al. . ."

Why wouldn't it stop? He just wanted to sleep.

"Alfred!"

Losing his patience Francis honked his car's horn. Alfred jumped awake so violently he almost kicked the giant teddy bear he was sleeping on off the bench. Ivan, on the other hand, was so drunk in his sleep he made little more noise than a single un-amused groan.

Francis laughed despite how angry Mathew was.

Alfred stood, blinking furiously. His cheeks burned when he realized the compromising position his brother found him in. Francis had taken longer to come back than he originally said and as the minutes went by the colder and sleepier Alfred got. Before he knew it he was asleep.

Ivan yawned and lay down again.

"Alfred, are you okay?" Mathew asked, getting out of the car. "Is your leg okay?"

"I'm alright, Mattie, I'm alright," the American assured, standing.

He had landed a little wonky but he was fine. Mathew continued fussing over him until absolutely sure his twin was okay. Alfred could hear Francis laughing from the car.

"So, that's your friend." Mathew stared at the sleeping bear. "…He's huge!"

Alfred scratched the back of his neck, laughing a little. "I wouldn't say we were friends but yeah, that's Ivan."

Mathew inspected the sleeping man, shivering like he was expecting the Russian to lunge at him. Ivan rolled over, and Mathew jumped back. He glanced at Alfred worriedly.

Alfred knew that look. It was the same look his brother gave him whenever Alfred was about to do something stupid, like light a firecracker in the school's bathroom.

And hey, that was a one time deal! Didn't he already promise Mathew, and his parents, and the school board, and the police station that he would never do it again?

"So Francis will be able to take us to New Hope right?" the American interrupted.

"Oh, yeah." Mathew turned away. "Do you want any help with him?"

"Nah, it's cool."

Alfred approached the bench, giving Ivan a harsh jab. The Russian groaned and glared over his shoulder. Alfred would have been terrified if it weren't for how much the Russian resembled a sleepy cub.

"Hey Ivan we're going now, come on," Alfred said poking him again. Ivan whined and wiggled unhappily. Alfred laughed and continued tickling the larger man. Until Ivan grabbed his hands and yanked him into his chest like a beloved childhood toy.

Alfred flushed and struggled to escape.

"Let me go, Ivan!"

"No I want to sleep, yes~" The Russian nuzzled his nose into the crook of Alfred's neck and hummed. The touch sent chills dancing through Alfred's nerves. He could feel his face burning from a blush and hoped Mathew just throught if was from the cold. Blushing was girly and Alfred refused to be associated with anything like that - his twin broter aside.

"You can sleep when we get home! Let go!"

Oh God, now Mathew was laughing. Just what he needed.

Ivan muttered a few more sentences in his mother language before he stood, picking Alfred up and carrying the American off down the road.

"Slow down buddy! Francis' car is right in front of us! Put me down!"

Alfred's nose and even ears burnt from blush. Francis would never let him forget this.

Ivan mumbled and dropped his charge. Alfred clattered to the ground and ignored Matthew's frantic questioning - he was too occupied with the Russian leaning against him.

"Alfred are you alright?!" Mathew exclaimed, rushing to his brother's side.

"Yeah he's just heavy. Could you open the door for me Matt?"

His brother nodded and helped Alfred ease the Russian into Francis's Porsche.

"Don't look at me like that!" Alfred snarled trying to force Ivan back onto his side of the car.

"Why Alfred, I don't know what you mean~" Francis sang with a charming voice.

Alfred glared but Ivan nuzzled into him and sighed a few more words. Alfred couldn't help but smile and tug his numb fingers through the soft, putty colored hair.


	4. The Clang of Unemployment

hen Ivan woke the next morning it was because a cherry ball smacked into his face. Ivan snarled like a drugged dragon, and ripped the thin, detergent scented sheets off his face. The light that filtered through the blinds told him it was late morning, and the horror stricken expressions of the three children told him who was guilty for the rude wake up.

The three shivered like mice, holding onto each other and praying for forgiveness.

Alfred, on the other hand, who stood behind the children, was in stitches. The American was actually in tears with laughter. He stomped his feet and pounded on the wall, causing several passersby to stop and stare. The room was mostly empty, the other residents having left already for breakfast or to work. Those that were left watched the leader of New Hope with amused expressions, laughing at both him and Ivan.

The Russian grit his teeth. If his glare had any physical affect at all Alfred's eyebrows would have been coated in a fine layer of frost.

The children shrank and ran to hide behind their blond protector but the sneer had the opposite affect on Alfred.

The American fell to the tiled floor, clutching his side with laughter.

Ivan was stunned speechless. No one had ever laughed at him like that before. And if they did when Ivan glared the perpetrators ran for the hills.

Could it be Alfred could see though him?

. . .Or was he just stupid?

"Oh, man, Ivan, your face is priceless! You seriously look like you want to kill me!"

Yes, Alfred F. Jones was an imbecile.

Alfred wiped away his tears and finished hiccupping.

"Ravis here was said that he hasn't been able to play kickball in a while since its all snowy out so we were playing in the hallway. I guess things got out of hand," Alfred explained, voice turning a little sheepish at the end. Ivan stared at the boy in question (the smallest of the three) who was shivering and sniffling with such intensity it looked like he was going through a seizure. Ivan was given the impression of a very small dog, in tears and half hiding behind Alfred's leg. Ivan doubted the child wanted to actually pay kickball.

"We're sorry!" grinned the sunny American, as if apologizing would make everything right with the world (end world hunger, poverty, natural disasters and all that jazz).

The three boys nodded their heads, eager to appease the grouchy Russian.

They were a little too eager, but at least their guilt was genuine, albeit fear driven.

Ivan stared at Alfred, confused, still very angry and just a little bit pleased.

Then he had to ask.

"We're you dropped on your head as a baby? Playing kickball in a hall way is a very stupid idea, yes?"

Alfred frowned and stood a little bit straighter.

"Yeah, why?"

~O~O~O~O~

"Come on, Ivan, it'll be fun! It snowed a little today so a promised the kids I'd play with them!"

Alfred tugged on Ivan's coat like a whiny child begging for a dinky plastic toy they'd break in five minutes anyway. He was insistent on the idea of making a fort, a snow man, and snow angels for half an hour now, begging and bargaining with the great impassive Russian. Alfred explained how rare it was to see snow in this part of America - and Ivan explained how rare it was not to see snow in Russia. The novelty of frozen water had long since worn off.

Ivan continued eating his oatmeal, smiling like a blushing bride and generating lethal waves of hatred like a satanic microwave. Every other person in the mush-hall gave the two a wide berth out of fear. The air around Ivan was strong enough to kill.

Again, Alfred was immune with his idiocy.

"Come on, Ivan, it'll mean a lot to the kids!"

"On the contrary, comrade, the children look like they would suffer a fatal heart attack; and as much as that thought makes me smile I do not want to go to jail for murder, yes?"

He sipped at the instant coffee and made a face.

Bleh, it was horrible! He'd have to stick to vodka as a morning pick-me-up.

Alfred sighed in defeat, raising his hands into the air. "You're the Grinch, Ivan. I bet you like making kids cry. It's one of your own sadistic hobbies', isn't?"

He stuck an accusing finger at the larger man, like he had canceled Christmas - the fiend!

Ivan's smile was cheerful as he saluted the American with his yucky, non alcoholic drink. "Songs to my heart~!" Alfred glared but that only made Ivan grin all the more. "I also love to make grown men cry, yes!"

Alfred scoffed and shuffled away. He yelled over his shoulder that his offer still stood before he raced off with an awkward skip, swinging his right leg around like a giraffe.

What a sight! He looked like such an idiot!

Ivan chuckled with a purring laughter, staring at his coffee.

Perhaps he would join the blond. At the very least he'd get another opportunity to make him cry.

Ah, ambition was a wonderful thing to have.

And a wet snowball in the face was not. Ivan was unfortunate enough to receive one as soon as he stepped out the front door.

Again, Alfred cackled like a raven as he collapsed into the slushy snow.

Ivan brushed the ice and water off his face and glared at the laughing blond. Throwing things into his face was becoming yet another annoying habit of Alfred's.

"Oh man, Ivan! You walked right into that!" Alfred exclaimed. The three boys watched the leader of New Hope, shaking in terror of what Ivan was about to do next.

With one hand Ivan wiped off as much of the snowball debris as possible and with the other, started to make ammunition.

Although homicide was tempting, Ivan would have to settle with giving the American as many bruises as possible with an innocent snowball battle.

He launched the half completed snowball at the laughing blond. It splattered all over the American's face, jarring his glasses off.

Alfred jumped into a battle pose, fixing his glasses and rushing into weapon production.

"You will never defeat the hero!" he called, tossing a snowball at Ivan. The large Russian ducked and emitted a dark, sinister chuckle, like the sound of a demon dragging its victim to the very pits of hell. Again, Alfred was immune, saying Ivan had a "crazy ass laugh" but was not as genuinely concerned about it as the frightened children.

"You are wrong, Comrade, you are the villain," argued Ivan. "Attacking with without warning. Sneak attacks are not heroic, yes?"

"It wasn't a sneak attack! I told you we were having a snowball fight! That's hardly --"

Another snowball stuck Alfred's face. Again his glasses were knocked off. Alfred fell to his knees to get them, suffering a few more hits from Ivan. "You fight dirty, Braginski!" Alfred snarled, rolling out of the line of fire. "This means war!"

Ivan giggled. He hadn't had this much fun in years.

"Toris, Ravis, Eduard! Help! Join the good side!" Alfred called to the boys who had been standing off the to side in a nervous line, watching the two adults act more like children then they were.

"No, they will become one with Ivan, yes?" Ivan encouraged, a sadistic glint in his eyes.

Ravis cried.

~O~O~O~O~

At the end of the "war" Alfred had built his fort, Ivan had the boys under his rule, and they were soaked from the half melted snow. By the time the boy's parents collected them for day care, the battle field resembled a half frozen swamp. Both Ivan and Alfred were soaked, mud caked on their clothes and skin.

They panted as they glared at one another from across the yard, hands too numb to make snowballs anymore.

Alfred's hair was messy and his pant was a raspy but happy one.

Ivan was much the same, though his smile was frosty. Even his prized scarf was muddy - something he was sure to get revenge for.

The air was thick with tension and the sound of raspy pants. Alfred's lips were chapped, his tongue darting out in an unconscious but futile attempt to null the sting. Ivan felt his fingers twitch. He liked seeing Alfred so tired, so sweaty, so vulnerable, so fu-

"Mr. Jones, may I have a word with you?" a man interrupted their staring contest, his badge and uniform showing him to be Officer Vash Zwingli. Alfred broke contact with Ivan to greet the policeman, bouncing with friendliness, caring the least of how presentable he was.

"Oh, hey Vash! How's it going?"

Ivan stiffened. The police had never liked him, here in America or home in Russia. He was big and imposing and scary to children. He was followed by security guards or shooed off by cautious mothers. The fact was that Ivan was naturally a suspicious character, the prime suspect on any illegal activity, despite his (almost) lack of illegal deeds. Who in this day and age considered stalking against the law? He just loved stronger than others. . . And the water pipe was used in self defense (mostly).

The short officer with well groomed yellow hair nodded and extended a stiff, gloved hand to shake Alfred's. A few words were exchanged, Vash's green eyes smoldering and intense. His eyes flickered over to Ivan.

The Russian did not like that look.

Another thing he did not like was when Alfred's shoulders slumped or when his bubbly, cheerful smile slipped into a more somber, almost sad look.

Ivan did not like that look on the American. He wanted to remove this…Vash and give Alfred a set of stacking dolls - he seemed the type to have hours of entertainment with it.

A few more words were spoken when a picture was shown to Alfred. The color drained from the blonde's face - making Alfred look like a ghost. Again, they spoke and Alfred nodded several times.

Ivan had enough and approached the two.

"Ivan, this is Officer Vash," explained the blue eyed man, reading Ivan's mood. "He's helped out New Hope a lot over the years and is a good friend of mine."

Based on how still Vash was, Ivan doubted the friendship comment. Things were neutral between the two at best.

"Morning," greeted the heavily accented Swiss.

Ivan wondered how many countries were represented in the small town.

"Oh, this is Ivan, he's new," Alfred said, gesturing to the large man. Ivan made no response. Vash studied him for a heavy second before regarding Alfred again.

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Jones. Have a good day."

"No, thanks for coming by, I appreciate it," replied Alfred.

Vash gave a curt nod and left. Alfred waved to the officer as he drove off, though the gesture was small.

Neither Alfred nor Ivan spoke, a bird twittered a happy song from the fence post.

"Damn it!" swore Alfred, kicking the white picket fence they stood by. The bird zipped off as the fence shook. Ivan thought his American counterpart would he howling with pain (there was a dent in the fence) but Alfred made no noise.

"Damn it!" he cursed again, shoving his hands into his pockets. His shoulders were tense, hunched like he was carrying the weight of the world.

Ivan said nothing, watching the American blow off his steam.

Eventually Alfred walked back, eyes narrowed and cold.

"Something wrong?" Ivan asked. He was unsurprised with the glare he received from the blue eyed man.

Then, Alfred sobered.

His eyes were still dark.

Alfred tried to speak several times, but he couldn't make more than a few words.

"I have never heard of a hero being tongue tied," Ivan teased, trying to get the blond to speak.

"A friend of mine was killed last night, okay!"

The words were out but Alfred felt even worse for saying them than he had a minute ago. His face took on a dejected look, one that didn't suit him at all.

"He was killed by the Haters." Alfred's tone was one of utter disgust, the voice one used when describing vermin. The blond chewed on is lower lip, chest aching with broken sorrow.

Haters?

Ivan heard that before. . .where?

"If you sleep out in the open like that then Haters will get'cha."

The memory was inky but Ivan could remember. Only last night he had been warned about them, the Haters.

"The Haters are a group of self-righteous thugs who target the homeless, disabled, gay, and religious alike." Alfred spat at the ground. "Vash and I have been working together for years to stop them or get their leader but the guys just vanish."

Alfred returned to watching Ivan. The Russian's eyes were wide, like the eyes of a child learning about death for the first time.

It could have been Ivan in the picture Alfred saw a minute ago. It could have been Ivan, bloodied, beaten, stabbed, raped, and left in a gutter for the worms.

The blond took a collecting breath.

Ivan was not in the picture, he assured himself. Neither was Mathew, or Francis, or Chell. They were safe, for now.

"Was he a good friend of yours?" the large Russian asked, voice almost as quiet as Alfred's twin.

The blonde's laugh had a sour ring to it.

"Yeah. He helped me out a lot when I just started New Hope. Always believed in me but we lost touch with each other. I hadn't seen him in three years."

Alfred sighed again, shaking his head. Grief clung to the usually energetic man. He looked at Ivan, at last realizing how muddy the both of them were. He laughed a little, muted life at last returning to his dead eyes.

"Do you have any other clothes? We should get cleaned off," Alfred said, pulling at his own muddied shirt and jacket. "We have some extra clothes in New Hope and a couple of washing machines you can use."

Alfred stared down the street for another moment. His hands tightened over the railing of the fence when he turned away, eyes cloudy again. Alfred marched into New Hope, hands in is pockets and thoughts miles away.

Ivan, cold, dirty, and without anything else to do, followed.

New Hope was much less crowded now that it was closed. There were workers and volunteers walking the halls, all moving quickly to get as much done as possible. They passed Chell, Alfred warning her about what had happened.

"Are you alright?" She asked, small hands over her lips, horrified.

Alfred kicked his feet and nodded. He'd be alright. He wanted the guilty group in jail and their teeth knocked in but he'd be aright.

They continued to the laundry room, Alfred giving orders and updates to everyone they passed. Each person greeted Alfred with as much enthusiasm as the blond did. Ivan had never seen anyone so well liked before.

It was annoying, gloating his friendship and popularity like he wasn't even aware how much Ivan dreamed to play such a loved role.

The lavender eyed man pushed back the poisonous thought. It was obvious Alfred wasn't aware. He was an idiot, but he was not an unkind one. And besides, he was allowing Ivan into New Hope when it was closed. He could have just as easily kicked Ivan out and deal with being cold and muddy all day.

He doubted he's get a worthwhile job like that.

Alfred flicked on the light to the laundry room, rubbing his arms because of the chill of the empty room. The light came on with a sleepy buzz, illuminating three washing machines and two dryers, cabinets in-between with dyes, bleach, and various cleaners. In the corner was a closet with generic gray, unisex clothes, the largest of which Alfred tossed over his shoulder at Ivan. The bulky Russian caught the oatmeal-like clothes, raising an eyebrow at their size. Alfred said they were the biggest he had but Ivan knew they'd be tight on him yet.

"Well, you only need to wear it until your clothes are clean," the blond pointed out, shrugging off his bomber jacket. His arms were covered in tiny Goosebumps, arm and legs quivering with a shiver. "Damn, its cold," he pointed out with a chuckle. Ivan did not return the laugh, the light above ringing its dieing hymn in the silence.

Alfred warmed his hands he turned on the washing machine, adding some detergent and his well worn jacket. Ivan, taking the cue, removed his own coat, revealing nothing more than a gentle cream shirt. It wasn't very thick, Alfred could see the man's massive structure under it - and to his embarrassment Ivan's chill hardened nipples. The blond looked away, hoping his own weren't on display.

It was Francis' fault - insisting that Alfred peruse the bear in a relationship. The Frenchman had been relentless in teasing Alfred entire ride home from picking Ivan off the street last night. There were already five voice mails on his phone and twenty texts all telling him to "go for it; you've nothing to lose and everything to gain!"

Damn Frenchman messing with love affairs.

Alfred wasn't even gay before Francis moved into the family!

He kicked off his shoes, adding them to the wash.

Ivan, disgusted, wanted to berate Alfred for daring to clean his filthy shoes with the same load as Ivan's precious coat but found himself unable to form a coherent sentence. His words chocked in his throat, tongue tying in knots. Alfred had stripped off his shirt, exposing creamy skin taught and covered with Goosebumps. His back was strong, shoulder blades squared and hardy. He was a little pudgy at the sides but not enough to be unattractive. He was well-fed, healthy and unaware of Ivan's voyeuristic gaze.

Then he pulled on another clean shirt, discarding his own and putting an end to the show.

"I think we need the heater on. Could you get it, Ivan? It's in the hallway."

Alfred turned around, vibrant, honest blue eyes crashing into Ivan's more subdued lavender ones. Ivan felt naked at the look. It was so intense, so overbearing and yet humble at the same time; like new dream, un-tethered or cut by the harshness of reality. The Russian felt with that single look Alfred could see right through him, read every thought and emotion Ivan ever had - any sin he had committed. It was unnerving, so he left to turn up the heater.

Dazed, Ivan found himself in front of the locked panel. It was password oriented and the stupid American had forgotten to tell him.

Frustrated, and feeling a little dumb himself, Ivan returned, a scowl detailing most of his face.

"Comrade, you remember the password for the heater, yes?" he asked shoving open the door with a careless push. Ivan's frigid eyes found the American. His mouth dropped. Ivan gaped openly, eyes wide and heart leaping over a beat.

"Ivan, dude! Privacy!" Alfred shouted in alarm, struggling to kick off his pants. They were caught around his right leg, foot stiff and unmoving compared to the other one. Alfred's left leg was more tanned than the blonde's back, having had more exposure to the sun than his shoulders. Ivan paid no attention to the strong leg, covered with thick dusty blond hairs. He was too busy gawking at Alfred's right leg.

The calf was nothing more than a thin metal bar, the thigh a type of flesh toned plastic. The contraption reached all the way to where it disappeared under Alfred's alien print boxers. The American's entire right leg was a prosthetic.

The awkward walk, kicking the fence, the general clumsiness. . .

Suddenly, everything made sense, and Ivan felt ashamed; like a boy being caught peeking in on is parents in an intimate moment.

The room was quiet, the washing machine still filling itself with heated water. Alfred stared at the ground, managing to untangle his pants and pull on a new pair.


	5. Rushin' Roulette

It was a few days later that Ivan and Alfred were able to talk again. Ivan, because he was busy job hunting and Alfred because he had a tight schedule with going to a service for his friend, getting donations from New Hope's benefactors, and running the homeless shelter in general. Pluse, they had both left on an awkward note after. . .the incident. . .and neither were willing to broach the topic.

During dinner that first night Alfred had announced to the members of New Hope about the murder. Fear and panic swept the crowd but Alfred was able to handle it, reassuring them and going over safety measures. Ivan could barley pay attention, so focused on Alfred's right leg.

How many people knew about it? Did everyone? Did no one?

How did he get it - birth, accident, violent assault, disease?

Was he embarrassed about it - or would he openly admit it?

Alfred wore pants that completely covered his leg with their bulk, but that could also be because it was still winter.

Then, for an instant, their eyes met. Ivan's eyes flashed away, as did the American's - moving onto the next member of New Hope.

The last few days had been hard on Ivan. Any money he earned from cheap jobs was spent on his precious (and expensive) vodka. He'd do anything to stop the shakes he felt when it had been too long since the last drink, even risking exppulsion from New Hope. Alfred had made it clear that alcohol was not allowed in the building, but Ivan figured if he was careful, if he made sure not to leave any hints, he'd be fine.

And now it was Friday night. An Italian was the chef tonight, apparently another friend of Alfred's who worked at the same restaurant as Francis - The Wax Doll. The food was fantastic, authentic, and far too flamboyant for Ivan's taste.

He liked simple food - easy to make and understand.

"Something wrong, Mr. Braginski?" asked a small Finnish man, concern in his periwinkle eyes. He was New Hope's job councilor, a cheerful man who had helped Ivan in his job hunting all week. Compared to Ivan, Tino Väinämöinen was tiny - a fact exaggerated by the small therapy dog he kept in is arms almost every time the Russian saw him. Both dog and owner had fluffy white-blond hair, a small button nose, and an approachable aura that made one want to reach out and cuddle them.

Ivan, being a man of few inhibitions, had followed the impulse; instantly he was on cloud nine.

So soft, like a lamb or a rabbit.

It was like he was cuddling with the essence of fluff -

And then Ivan met Berwald -

And then Ivan met Berwald's fists.

Apparently the Finish boy was taken.

That was fine for now, one day they would all become one with him.

At Tino's words Ivan sat up a little straighter; though still hunched over his food like a predatory beast guarding its kill. He may not like the food but he wasn't planning on getting rid of it either.

Tino smiled like he hadn't noticed a thing and as he sat next to Ivan, depositing Hanatamago in an empty chair. The tiny pillow of a dog danced in a circle before curling into a comfortable position, staring with unblinking devotion at its master. Tino, polite as ever, had his full attention on Ivan.

"Just thinking of home," the large Russian replied, poking at is pasta. "Life is much simpler there."

"I know what you mean," agreed Tino after a moment with a small nostalgic smile. He reached a reflexive hand to scratch Hanatamago's ear - the dog whimpered in bliss. "Did you hear about the marathon tomorrow? Berwald, Hanatamago and I are joining Alfred."

The night before Alfred had announced that Saturday morning he was participating in a twenty six mile marathon to raise money for a cure for cancer. He invited anyone who could make it (looking at Ivan when he said this).

There was a small murmur of voices but no one jumped to sign up. Regardless, Alfred was as excited as a child on their birthday. The American bounced around in giddy delight, talking a mile a minute to anyone near, despite whether they cared not.

The joy that radiated off the perky blond was almost enough to make Ivan drop his dinner to join in the strange, exhausting idea.

Almost.

"Alfred wouldn't stop talking about it," said Tino, interrupting Ivan's reminiscence. The Finnish man laughed like a bell and shook his head is disbelief. "For the past two days it seems all he can talk about is the cancer walk or you. Well, that and hamburgers, but that's normal for him." Ivan stopped poking his food, staring at Tino.

Did he just hear right? Alfred talked about him?

That had a nice feeling.

"So are you coming with us tomorrow? It'd definitely make Alfred's day."

Ivan took a moment before answering. Going with the group meant he'd lose a day of looking for a job. Without a job he'd have no money, consequently with no money he would have no vodka; and that was a bad thing for Ivan.

On the other hand, it meant he had a chance to find out how Alfred got his leg.

. . . And that was a question that had been bugging Ivan all week.

~O~O~O~O~

The next morning Ivan woke early, ate breakfast quick, and followed Tino to the parking lot wearing gym shorts Tino found for him and a skin tight purple sleeveless shirt. Hisarms and legs were cold for now but Ivan knew that during the run he would heat up. Hewore the same shoes he always wore, the only pair he had. His beloved scarf was still in place around is neck. It was is most prized possession, he'd die before leaving it out of sight.

Francis and Mathew were already there, Mathew joining the group with Francis as his chauffeur since the Canadian's hand was still in a cast. The small blond looked almost exactly like Alfred, only a little more subdued, less easy to spot. Ivan hadn't even noticed the Canadian until Francis groped him in an inappropriate enough place that he squealed and smacked his lover with the casted arm.

The smack was loud enough to be heard from where Ivan was, and seemed quite painful. Mathew babbled apologies as Francis massaged his jaw, laughing at his boyfriend.

Mathew was a star hockey player after all, Francis should have known that a back hand from his meek lover would leave a welt.

As they waited for Alfred to finish last minute issues with the shelter Tino introduced Ivan to Berwald, trying to ease the tension with a ridiculous joke about a bear and a rabbit and how they spent their wishes. Though Ivan had already "met" the stoic, almost scary-looking Swede it was nice to be introduced without getting his teeth knocked in. What Ivan did not understand was how cute, fluffy little Tino could be dating the larger stony faced blond. The man had an intensity in his eyes that one would associate with a hardened criminal, a mercenary, or battle weary warrior. He had a haunting gaze, dark and intimidating.

And yet Hanatamango licked his hand, and Berwald carried the small dog with such loving care it was like he was holding a king's baby.

"Ah, Alfred. It is about time, non? You take so long, I just about took mon amour Matheiu back to our apartment so I could rav-"

"Francis!" Mathew tugged on his lover's hair (just one lock and as gentle as Berwald had been with the puppy) to make him stop.

Ivan turned to see Alfred's expression, somewhat giddy with anticipation.

The look on Alfred's face was worth any amount of money and alcohol.

His smile had enough wattage to light a city and he was just about crying with joy. It was so damn cute Ivan wanted to smack the blond, just to make the butterflies in his stomach to stop fluttering.

And at the same time he wanted to grab the American and rub their noses together in an innocent Eskimo kiss.

Ivan was convinced Alfred was as adorable as the small Finnish boy - just a different kind of cute. Tino was like the small dog Bewald now carried (adorable and fluffy), while Alfred was as lovable as a dumb looking mutt - all grins and energy.

Especially now, bouncing around and galloping like a newborn colt.

Ivan found his eyes glued to Alfred's right leg, searching for a hint of what he knew was there.

"I'm glad you decided to come!" the American cheered, forcing Ivan to turn away from to leg to face Alfred's sky-like eyes. He was hopping in place. Ivan nodded and Alfred chatted with the group. Plans were decided when Alfred turned back, still all smiles.

"We'll meet you guys there, okay?" said Alfred, dashing off to his car. Francis shook his head as Mathew warned his twin to drive safe.

Ivan followed Alfred's lead and got into the messy car.

"Mattie, Berwald, and Tino are in the walk but Francis is being an ass and won't join," informed the blond, knocking hamburger wrappers off the dashboard. Both the inside and outside of Alfred's car was grungy, uncared for. Wrappers and 'Happy Meal' toys were scattered over the floor - Ivan was sure he was crushing some beneath his feet.

The rancid smell of grease and french-fried was strong enough to make Ivan sick.

No wonder he had thrown up the last time he was in this car. It was disgusting.

"To make up for it Francis is serving diner for everyone after the marathon," Alfred continued, either not noticing or ignoring Ivan's look of disgust at the state of his car.

As he drove Alfred turned on the radio and flipped through the stations until he came to a rap station he liked.

Ivan glared at the radio, unhappy with the music it belted.

"Thanks for coming, Ivan" Alfred said, voice quiet, not quite audible over the boom of the radio. Despite this Ivan clung to the blonde's words. Ivan would listen, be it over music, jet plane, or bomb raid. He would make sure he heard whatever the American said, no matter how stupid. Alfred turned to the large man, grinning ear to ear. "It means a lot to me."

Ivan felt himself warm in an uncomfortable way at the comment but found himself unable to look away from Alfred.

There was that feeling again, the same one he felt when Tino said Alfred talked about him. It was the same feeling that made him agree to this crazy marathon in the first place.

"Keep your eyes on the road," Ivan chided, trying to ignore both Alfred's look and the rap music.

Alfred laughed and sped up.

~O~O~O~O~

The air was bitterly cold, but through out the week the sun had melted any and all snow. The track was dry, like a cold desert. Alfred's eyes stung and his lips chapped, but these minor irritations were not enough to extinguish his excitement.

It was a pretty good turn out for the marathon. Small, but he had been expecting less since it was scheduled during the end of winter. Alfred couldn't wait till spring but the cancer walk was good enough to last until then.

Everyone was bustling about like overworked bees, getting papers in order and rallying together for the big event.

Alfred changed into more suitable clothes for what would soon become a very sweaty day. A sports shirt was under his bright blue hoodie for when the sun came out, and he changed from pants to shorts.

As he expected Ivan was staring at his leg.

Alfred was glad his Russian friend had already seen, otherwise the moment would be even more awkward than it was.

He plastered a wide smile on his face - no time to be mopey - and led Ivan to where their group was meeting up. The Russian followed quietly behind. Alfred could feel those lavender eyes on his leg.

"Alfred! There you are!" sang Francis, laughter unmistakable in his smooth voice. "I have your numbers for the cancer walk here - look what my naughty kitten got!"

"Stop Francis," Mathew hisses, hiding his face in his hands. Much to the Canadian's embarrassment Francis pulled his hands away, kissing the one with the cast on it. His number was revealed, 69.

Mathew died.

Several minutes later, when Alfred stopped laughing, he and Ivan were given their numbers, 42 and 13 on a large sticker they attached to their respective shirts.

Tino and Berwald arrived, numbers 88 and 99 already on their shirts. Alfred bounced around and chatted animatedly about anything.

Ivan watched, noticing that no one else was looking at Alfred's exposed leg.

Were they desensitized to it - or just polite?

They neared the start line, Francis fussing over his boyfriend and putting sun-block over his delicate nose and chapstick over his lips - insisting on doing so since Mathew's right arm was still benched. When his boyfriend told Francis to stop the Frenchman coated his lips in the chapstick before kissing Mathew, transferring it to his lover's lips. The straw betty blond squeaked, face flushing like a school girl's.

"Come on guys, stop being so gay," groaned Alfred, rolling his eyes. Ivan felt an odd pang.

Did that mean Alfred wasn't. . .

"Oh, come now, mon chei, you are not jealous, are you?" Francis' eyebrows danced with a come hither expression. "I would not mind a threesome, I adore blonds.

Ivan felt himself glare at the invading Frenchman but Alfred just cackled, slapping Francis hard on the back.

"Nah, I know Mattie doesn't like to share. 'Sides, it'd be way to weird to be in a relationship with my brother."

Both Francis and Mathew laughed and continued joking. Ivan felt more at ease, is previous alarm dissipating.

Near by Tino and Berwald helped put sun-block on each other, and a dollop on Hanatamango's nose. The little dog licked the sun-block off, making a face at the bitter taste. The pair laughed at their dog, Tino's airy and Berwald's a deep rumble.

When Ivan looked back to Alfred, Mathew was coating his twin's nose in the sun-block, the American whining like a child again. His glasses were off and his eyes were squinted shut like Hanatamango's.

"Ivan, come 'ere," said Alfred when Mathew finished, fixing is glasses. He squirted a large puddle of the sun-block on his hands and gestured for Ivan to come closer. The bulky man tried not to think of what the white liquid in the American's hands looked like.

He focused instead on Alfred's cool hands massaging sun-block into his skin, running fingers over his cheeks, nose, and eyebrows.

"There, now you'll be cancer free!" exclaimed Alfred when he was satisfied. Ivan opened his lavender eyes, blinking in a daze. The American was giddy at the chance to see Ivan's eyes so close. They were so cool!

Ivan continued to blink, taking far too much pleasure in his proximity to the blond.

Alfred was just too cute.

Francis wished everyone good luck and kissed Mathew good bye, having to rush off to work. Alfred's twin was sad at his boyfriend's departure, but there was a determination in his eyes. He was sure to make Francis proud.

Before Francis left he pulled Ivan to the side, giving him a heavy pack. It rustled in the Russian's hands, plastic against plastic. Ivan quirked an eyebrow.

"It has food for Alfred, protein snacks and drinks. . . He gets tired easily - has to use more energy than the rest of us." Ivan looked from the pack to Alfred's leg. Luckily the American didn't notice, busy chatting with his brother.

"This is Alfred's burden," Francis spoke in metaphor, pulling a stray strand of golden hair behind is ear. "Take care of him, but know he doesn't like to lean on others. He is a very stubborn American. And a very stupid one, non?

"Da," he agreed, regarding Francis for the first time. The man was clever, Ivan would give him that much. "Thank you."

"Not a problem, I live to help those romantically challenged~!"

He jogged off, throwing kisses to the wind.

"This is gonna be great," chuckled Alfred, warming his hands.

A speaker came as they shuffled into position. Alfred wasn't paying attention, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Finally, the cancer walk was truly on, and Alfred raced out into 'first place'. He zoomed past everyone else and continued racing on till he bound around a corner and out of sight.

"Alfred! Wait! It's. . .not a race. . ." Mathew tried to run after his brother but stopped after a short distance. Ivan jogged up to the disheartened Canadian, giggling.

"Do not worry, little one. He will collapse soon and we will catch up, yes?" His smile was so pleasant Mathew almost missed the dark comment the Russian made.

The group stayed together for the first five miles but after that Tino started lagging behind. Berwald walked slower to be with his boyfriend, telling the others they would catch up after the walk.

Ivan was left alone with Alfred's twin, surrounded by the pushing mass of the marathon runners.

The air was awkward, not nearly as comfortable as when the American was around. Ivan searched for something to talk about but the shy Canadian beet him to it.

"So…eh, how long have you known about Alfred's leg?" Mathew flushed for his comment but tried to act confident. Ivan could see right through him.

"The beginning of this week. I was very surprised."

Ivan had been so surprised he hadn't said a word to the blond for the rest of he day.

Mathew nodded, eyes focused on the ground in front of them.

"He loves to show it off, especially to kids. They see him as a robot superhero."

Ivan laughed at the idea. He doubted the idiot could rescue anyone. Then again, it was probably his life's dream to be the Terminator.

"How did he get it?" The Russian asked, unable to hide is questions any longer. Mathew glanced his way, a nervous, skittish look. When he spoke again Ivan had to lean in close to hear.

"It's Alfred's story. He should be the one to tell you."

Ivan did not like that answer, but he would wait to interrogate the blond later. One way or another he would find out.

They continued jogging, able to keep up with the strong crowd, Mathew because of his hockey career and Ivan because he was built like a wolverine - all strength and stamina.

It was at the five mile mark that they discovered Alfred, collapsed with his face on the ground. A small cluster of runners were gathered around the blond, asking if he was alright and calling for medical help. Mathew bolted to is brother, panicked voice gasping for Alfred's acknowledgement.

Well, that wouldn't do.

Ivan passed trough the crowd, scooting Mathew away like a shy cat. The lavender eyed man stared down at his blond friend and crouched beside him. Alfred was breathing hard, hoodie off and shirt stained with sweat. When he turned to look at Ivan his eyes were steady, if not a little embarrassed.

He was probably secretly enjoying all the attention.

"I guess I. . .uh, I let myself get carried away?" His laugh was a pathetic, half hearted twitter.

"You are an idiot," Ivan noted with a cruel smile. Alfred pouted.

"Hey, I-"

"You made your brother worry. I hate people who make their family upset." His eyes took on a maliciousness, one rare to anyone but a murderer.

Alfred opened his mouth to argue when he understood what the Russian said. The blond took on an expression like he had been slapped. He glared at Ivan, straining to pick himself up. His metal leg scraped across the gravel, making a "glass on chalkboard sound."

Ivan's anger faltered at the noise.

It was disgusting.

The blond stood in a trance, searching for Mathew.

"I'm fine, Mattie," he said when he spotted the shy Canadian, giving his brother a two finger salute. ". . .I'm fine everyone," he addressed the crowd. They were unconvinced.

Alfred heaved a sigh, crumpling half on himself before running off.

They didn't understand. Alfred had to run to the end of the finish line. He had to make it to the end, to prove he could do it. He wouldn't let his leg get the better of him. Nothing would stop Alfred F. Jones when he was determined! He would show them all he was still strong, that he could finish this marathon on his own!

"Alfred, wait! Stop running!" Mathew cried, trying to run after his brother but too caught in the crowd to move without shoving the people to the ground.

"Do not worry, little one, I will return with the idiot, yes?" Ivan reassured without even looking at the smaller blond, galloping after Alfred with long strides.

He caught up within moments, the blue eyed man not able to run as fast as he had before. He kept pace with the weaving American.

"You should rest. You are running to death, yes?" Ivan said, taking off the pack Francis have him as he ran.

"Shut up, Braginski, I can do this! I don't need a rest!"

"You are willing to cause unnecessary worry for your poor brother. Here, eat this." He held out a granola bar to the blond.

Mathew can take care of himself, and I don't want the food, Alfred snarled, slapping the bar out of Ivan's ands.

The larger man reacted instantly, sticking out his leg to knock Alfred off is feet. The blond yelped as he clattered to the ground. Alfred rolled with the momentum and staggered upright.

"You crazy bastard, you could have broken my kneecaps! Do you have any idea how much this leg cost me?" he shouted in outrage. The nearby runners watched the two as they passed. Mathew's voice could be heard in the crowd.

"And that granola bar could have saved a child from going hungry. You Americans are so insensitive when it comes to food. Do you know how many people die each day because of starvation? Some hero you are."

Emotions bubbled trough Alfred. His eyes flashed with rage, disgust then confusion and denial. Shame overtook him. It sank into is chest like a bile and wrapped its toxic, sharp nails around his heart and lungs.

He. . . he didn't think about that. How could he not have thought of that? He said he was a hero, he tried to help everyone he met, and yet still found himself doing stupid things like that!

It sucked being human, making mistakes.

Alfred kept walking, trying to wear out this thoughts. He didn't have the patience to sit still for too long. He had important thins to do, places to go, people to help. He had to finish the cancer walk before he could give what little money he had to a charity for children in Africa, or some other place.

Ivan followed Alfred in silence, offering another granola bar and a small water bottle. This time the American accepted both without a word, staring straight ahead. Other joggers were passing them but the two kept the steady trot Alfred started.

Mathew caught up, curious as to what happened but not inquiring. What ever happened between the two was between the two. Mathew didn't want to intrude.

It was Alfred who broke the silence a moment later, asking his brother if he thought Francis would make a hamburger for him when they were finished.

Ivan argued that his American friend didn't need to be fatter than he already was and if he continued eating heart clogging food soon he wouldn't be able to fit through doors.

"Shut up, I'm not fat!" Alfred shouted, chasing after the Russian who bolted as soon as he finished his comment. "Come back here and say that to my face, your coward! I'll kick you!"

Mathew smiled. The tension lifted as Alfred laughed. Whatever problem the two had was settled now.

~O~O~O~O~

The end was in sight but Alfred was tiring out. He had fallen a couple of times but refused to lean on Mathew or Ivan.

It irritated him that he couldn't keep up with the two, but what infuriated him was that they slowed down for his sake.

He wasn't a kid! He could walk on his own!

He was just. . . tired.

"Alfred, the finish line is in sight," Ivan hummed with a happy chirp. Alfred looked up and sure enough the finish line was there, close enough to count the people who were cheering them on.

This was it. This was his moment.

Alfred pulled away from the other two and started running, slow at first but he picked up pace - passing the other joggers!

He was deaf to everything, his own breathing, the scrape of his shoes against the gravel, the spring of his false leg.

Alfred focused on the finish line.

He saw nothing else but the goal.

But then the last of his energy burnt out.

Alfred slowed, waving his arms like he was swimming to keep speed.

He couldn't breath. His muscles burned. His full leg cramped and the stub of his right throbbed from rubbing against the prosthetic all day. His lungs gave out and then his body gave out.

Alfred fell, but Ivan was right there, holding him upright. The blond breathed a wheezy thank you. Ivan shrugged off the complement as he made sure Alfred was steady.

Then, to the American's shock, the Russian took off again, speeding to the finish line.

"Oh hell no!" Alfred shouted, taking after his rival. He'd die before he let that smug jerk win the race. Alfred put in too much energy to lose now, so close to the end.

"Seems you do have some energy left after all, eh, Comrade?"

"Shut your trap! Let's see who's smirking when I beat you!"

Ivan giggled.

"Oh, you're going to beat me? Please be gentle, it's my first time with an American, yes?"

"W-What?!" Alfred spluttered, almost losing his footing. "You're as bad as Francis!"

Alfred pushed on.

So close, so close!

He passed Ivan, but the Russian was persistent. Ivan, Alfred, Alfred, Ivan, Alfred, Ivan again; the lead kept changing!

The finish line was a few seconds away, Alfred ran with all his strength - he would not lose!

He crossed the line!

The roaring cheer of the crowd all around him deafening, mixed with bystanders and fellows from the walk.

He won! He won! He won, he won, he wo--

He tripped.

Alfred tumbled over the finish line - onto his prosthetic.

Ivan was at his side in a moment, checking over the blonds wounds.

Alfred's head throbbed and he had never felt so out of breath in all his life but for the most part he was okay. A few cuts and scrapes were bearable.

Ivan panted over him, drenched in sweat, skin still burning with energy. He swept the back of his and over his brow to get the sweat out of his eyes. All of his messy putty hair was out of is face, lavender eyes full of life for once.

His cheeks were flushed and his lips were puckered as he looked over Alfred, massive hands on the thigh of Alfred's full leg.

What would it be like to hug him?

"You are an idiot," Ivan noted, accent heavy.

What would it be like to kiss him?

"I am not," Alfred argued, trying to get control of his breathing.

What would it be like to. . .

Ivan was unconvinced. He pulled away, to move Alfred away from the middle of the road were joggers were still passing through but the blond attacked him. . .with lips.

Ivan was so shocked he didn't react. Alfred sucked on his lips and nipped like a cat. He wheezed for breath, collecting himself. The Americans entire face was as red as a berry, flustered, sweaty, hot and bothered.

He was about to say something, apologize or make a dumb comment. Ivan never found out, returning the desperate kiss.

He met Alfred with such enthusiastic energy he toppled the smaller man over, Ivan laying on top of him so Alfred was smushed between the Russian and the ground, gravel poking into is back.

It hurt, but the pain and pleasure mixed like an erotic tapestry, one increasing the other to were they were woven so completely Alfred couldn't tell which was which.

Still, it would be nice to be on top of the larger man, making him experience all these wild pleasures.

Ivan licked Alfred's neck, along a tendon and eradicated any objections the American had to their position. He bucked into Ivan, is hands snaking into the Russian's back pants to grope Ivan's backside.

The Russian growled like a large predatory cat, and yanked Alfred by his hair to his lips, giving them a furious, singing kiss with teeth and tongue.

Alfred's nerves were on fire!

It had been so long since he'd done anything like this, and Ivan's taste was so bitter, yet soothing at the same time like he was a mint.

Their sudden rivalry fueled their passion. Alfred never wanted it to stop, the aggressive impulses, the battle for dominance, the pure adrenaline.

Alfred was becoming addicted.

"For Maple's sake, Alfred!" Mathew yelled, waking the American from what he was doing like a splash of water.

Ivan grinned down at him and rubbed their noses together.


	6. Rubik's Cube

Too bright, too bright, too bright!

Pounding vice-like grip, vertigo.

He was delirious.

He was nauseous.

He was in pain.

Pain, pain, pain - so much pain!

He ripped his shirt off and clawed at his own back as his body was wracked with another violent dry heave.

Nothing, nothing to vomit. His body had nothing to give. There was no alcohol.

None, none at all~

He heaved again.

Barely he could hear movement.

He was still in New Hope. His poor roommates were probably horrified with the large Russian's fit. Ivan would have laughed if he weren't already coughing up his own insides.

A night guard was fetched. A brave person tried to sooth Ivan but he lashed out like a wounded animal. Everyone stepped back, frightened.

They looked down their noses at him like he was dirty.

Another hand was at his shoulder, making Ivan yelp and rear back like a startled horse.

The hand tugged him along, ignoring the Russian's weak pleas.

Vodka.

Its all he wanted.

Or any alcohol.

Anything!

Please, oh God, make the throb go away!

He spun in and out of consciousness. He was offered water and some medicine but he spat it back up almost instantly. He knew what he wanted and begged for it, pleaded for it. He was ignored and refused each time, drink the water, it'll help.

They were lying. They had to be, it never got any better.

He was dying and knew that he would always feel like he was dying until he got his precious vodka.

He woke late into the morning, light filtering into the private room in a way that made him cringe.

He was presented with more medicine and another drink, this time hot chocolate.

"Berwald told me you had a rough night," Alfred said with a quiet, calming voice. He kneeled beside Ivan (who in the course of the night had fallen off his bed and onto the tile), to rub gentle circles into the Russian's tense back. "Take the medicine, you'll feel better."

Ivan whined and tried to push the offered remedies away with a weak movement. "No!" he cried like a child. He would just throw it up again.

Alfred pouted. "Come on, Ivan! Do it for me?" He fluttered his eyelashes but the action was wasted, Ivan had his eyes clamped shut.

"No," he stubbornly refused, shaking his head the way a child would.

"I promise you won't puke,"

"No! You Lie!"

Alfred rolled his eyes and shook his head. He was worried about his (boy)friend. The Russian had been complaining about dizziness the night before but Alfred had brushed it off as the larger man just being tired from their night together (Alfred had taken him to see and epic new action movie, and he ate hamburgers, and popcorn, and hotdogs, and candy, and soda, Ivan said he wasn't hungry which Alfred didn't believe for a second because no one could be un-hungry when the person next to them ate a hamburger so he bought his Russian date a big slushee they could both share - though Alfred ate most of that to, and during the movie Ivan leaned into Alfred and took his hand and they kissed and it was awesome and Alfred couldn't be happier).

The American had his suspicions because of the status his date was in when they first met but Alfred kept that to himself.

Now tough, there was no denying it. He knew from experience the agony Ivan was going through. Withdrawal was not a pretty thing to witness, or go through.

"Come on, Ivan. Drink the chocolate. I promise you wont puke. You can't puke chocolate, it's impossible, It's like going your entire life without a MacDonald's - it's just not right. I'm sure it's one of that Newton guys laws.

Alfred thought for a moment and nodded is head, self validating is own comment. The blond was adorably misled but Ivan could not find the strength to comment.

"Come on, sweetheart, you don't have to take the medicine as long as you drink the coca. I want you to eat before I take you to the liquor store."

Ivan sat up, eyes straining open.

Did he hear correct? Was Alfred really going to take him to get vodka?

What a fantastic idea!

What a smart man!

Alfred was so kind, so clever, so lovely!

~Ivan was in love!

How could he have gone through all of his life without the beautiful, caring, intelligent blonde?

Ivan reached out and tugged at Alfred's shirt collar, brining the blonde down for a kiss, spilling some of the hot chocolate in the process.

"Eww, puke lips!" Alfred complained when he was released, wiping his lips. He drank some of the coca to wash out the taste. Although he was more than happy to kid Ivan he wished the Russian had brushed his teeth beforehand.

Ivan took the coca with shaky hands, Alfred's still around the mug to keep it steady. The putty haired man drank down the hot chocolate like he was breathing it in.

Alfred had only seen Vash down coca quicker, being a chocolate fanatic.

"Pah." Ivan sighed when he finished, wiping his lips. His breathing was heavy but he did it. Now he'd get some alcohol.

Alfred laughed and took the mug. He helped Ivan to his feet. When the American asked if he wanted to freshen up in the bathroom before leaving Ivan complained loudly.

"You promised vodka!" he cried. "I need vodka!"

Alfred explained by the time they finished going to the liquor store New Hope would be closed but Ivan just kept demanding his vodka.

"It's okay, it's okay, I know, I know," said Alfred, letting the mumbling Russian lean on him as they made their way to the blonde's car. Ivan saw though a tunnel. Nothing existed but the car that would take him to the liquor store - not even Alfred.

The car ride was a dizzy fog for Ivan but once they stopped he knew where they were. He struggled out of the car, hands clutching onto the car and then to Alfred so he wouldn't fall.

He found the brand he wanted; Alfred paid for it using his credit card because the vodka was too expensive for pocket cash. Ivan was practically purring with delight when he finally got to drink it, in his pleasure missing Alfred's worried eyes.

~O~O~O~O~

It was a week later when disaster stuck. Ivan was late to dinner that day. Most everyone in the shelter had already eaten the hardy food - clean up was underway.

Alfred finished his own meal and was helping the kitchen crew with the dishes.

Ivan slipped into the already cramped room and pulled Alfred into his arms from around the American's middle, pressing sloppy kisses into the blonde's neck.

Alfred squirmed and kicked, ordering to be put down - an order Ivan ignored.

Then Alfred smelt it, like a bag a bricks to the face; the bitter, numbing sting of hard liquor. It rolled off the Russian in waves. Ivan smelt like he had bathed in vodka.

Alfred gagged and covered his nose breaking out of his partner's embrace, praying this didn't mean what he thought it meant.

"Ivan, what did you do with the vodka bottle?"

The one Alfred bought was only partially drunk, there being far too much to drink in one go. Alfred had taken the bottle back to his home, allowing Ivan a drink every other day.

Today, though, Alfred hadn't seen the Russian. Ivan must have gotten hold of another stash.

Ivan giggled and poked Alfred's nose (it was more of a jab, the blonde though his nose was going to break).

"Ivan, what did you do with the vodka bottle?" the blonde repeated, massaging his nose.

The Russian giggled and continued to poke Alfred, not understanding how much power he was using in his intoxication. Alfred was sure he was going to find bruises all over his face and chest the next day.

"I can't tell you that~" giggled Ivan, stopped him poking in favor of tugging that stupid cowlick of Alfred's. It was so adorable, like a little duck tail. Ivan couldn't help but want to pull it out of the American's scalp.

"Quit it," Alfred ordered, swatting away his boyfriend's hands. Ivan made a sloppy grin. "I know you've been drinking. Now tell me, what did you do with the bottles? Why cant you tell me?"

Ivan hiccupped and gave Alfred a very painful noogie.

"It's a secret," Ivan replied.

"Alfred, is there a problem?" asked one of the kitchen staff, a dark haired Spaniard. He wore a messy apron splattered with the night's dinner but despite is sloppy appearance Antonio held a serious air. He knew someone as powerful and drunk as Ivan was never a person to mess around with. He was like a bull, not an animal you lost your concentration when wrangling.

"No, we're fine," assured Alfred, trying to get Ivan to behave himself. The Russian was being stubborn. "Ivan, what did you do with the vodka bottles?"

"I can't tell you. If I did you'd toss me out~"

That was enough for Alfred. With a word to Antonio to watch the larger man the blond took off, to the room where Ivan was bunking. He passed Berwald on the way, telling the Swede he'd be needed. Alfred searched the cot, the other members of New Hope watching on with nervous curiosity. Berwald ripped the mattress off the steel frame, finding two empty vodka bottles and one more than halfway drunk.

How was he still alive after drinking all that?

Someone in the room gasped. Alfred stared, expression unreadable. Berwald picked up the bottles to throw them away. The American covered his eyes with the palm of his hand.

Oh Ivan.

~O~O~O~O~

"Mmmh, just like that~" Francis purred as his lover pressed delicate, fleeting kisses over his bare chest. Francis moaned as Mathew traced his pecks with his almost tickling touch.

Francis was going crazy!

Mathew was playing with him, he knew it!

Any second the hockey player was going to snap and unleash all that pent up energy! Francis was shivering with anticipation for the storm.

Any second. . .any second. . .!

The phone rang, and the mood was gone.

Francis wept at the loss, wishing a slow death on whoever called.

Mathew sent his lover an apologetic look and picked up the phone, slipping on a bathrobe on his way out the room.

Francis thrashed about in bed, mourning the loss.

I need a cigarette," he moaned, rolling out of bed to sulk on the balcony despite being in his birthday suit.

"Hello? Bonnefoy-William's resident, can I help you?" Mathew asked into the phone, polite as ever. He was just as disappointed as Francis about their interruption (it was one of his few days when he was home before Chell so they had wanted to take advantage of the empty house) but he simply could not ignore a phone call.

What if it was an emergency?

He just hoped whoever called would be quick.

Mathew knew his lover's habit of parading around like an exhibitionist.

"Mattie. . .hi. . .I, uh. . .I need to talk."

Alfred sounded like he was about to cry.

All of Mathew's frustration vanished in an instant. It was a rare occurrence when the American let himself cry, and only ever with Mathew. The two brothers had agreed long ago they could tell each other anything - Alfred was the first person Mathew told he was gay, and Alfred told Mathew all the drugs he had done when he wanted help quitting.

But for Alfred to cry. . .this must be serious.

"What's wrong?" the Canadian asked, sitting in an arm chair. He felt this would be a long conversation.

"I. . .uh, I had to kick Ivan out. He had three bottles of vodka under his cot." There was a pause where neither brother said anything. Mathew could hear Alfred walking around on the other side of the line, unable to sit still. "The Haters are still out there."

Alfred was regretting his decision.

"Alfred, do you remember what you said when you first made New Hope? You said it would be a safe place for everyone, and drugs including alcohol were to never be allowed. You promised that, to yourself and the people you said you'd help. Anyone in possession was to be kicked out, that's what makes New Hope such a good place."

"But he'd on the streets Mattie. . .he's still drunk and alone on the streets with those - those murderers!" There was the sound of something breaking and Alfred grunting in pain.

"Calm down, Alfred! Eh? I'm sorry but you need to sit, I don't want your hurting yourself!"

Or your leg. The American struggled to pay his medical bills as it was.

Alfred sighed a loud, irritated sight and sat, tapping his foot.

"I'm nervous, Mattie. I should have driven him to one of the safe zones. I should have made sure he was okay. Damn it! I could have let him sleep in my car!"

Alfred jolted up to continue pacing, snarling under his breath at his own stupidity.

If Ivan died tonight, it was all his fault.

"Al? Al, listen to me," Mathew said, voice stern. It was the tone he used only ever on Alfred or Francis when they were misbehaving.

"When you run your own business, especially a charity one, you have to make hard decisions."

Alfred stopped pacing, listening as his chest bubbled with sick emotions.

"Everyone told you you'd never make it, but you promised to prove them wrong. You said you could do it, and so far you have. Ivan's a big guy. Have faith he can make it on his own, eh?"

Alfred swallowed the knot in his throat.

"It's for the greater good."

His heart stung at those words, so often spoken by he himself.

Alfred nodded, "Yeah. . .for the greater good. . ."

Ivan already exhibited his danger when Alfred tried to make him leave. It wasn't fair to the other refugees of New Hope to be around someone as unpredictable as a wild animal. It was like keeping a pet tiger locked up in a small house full of people and stiff regulations.

Yes, New Hope was safe from danger at least in regards to Ivan. The rules were kept and the line that was never suppose to be crossed was still intact.

Everything met the standards Alfred set. . .

. . .but that didn't mean the American was happy with the outcome.

~O~O~O~O~

In what was becoming a regular occurrence, Ivan found himself staggering down the streets in a drunken daze.

He had enough sense to know he blew it, lost his chance for a home, job, and to be with Alfred.

Such a waste.

At least it wasn't as cold as it had been when he fist met the American. He was lucky that his part of the country changed seasons so quickly, a fact most Americans were spoiled with and didn't even appreciate. Spring was just around the corner.

He used the walls of the buildings he was walking by to guide himself, puffing breath steaming the air.

Where. . .Where did Alfred say the park was?

. . .What direction?

. . .This way?

Ivan stopped for a moment to get his bearings. When the world stopped spinning the Russian found himself in a ghetto. The streets were cracked, the street lights dimmed or broken, the buildings grungy. A dog barked, its booming voice echoing as a precursor to a siren in the distance.

This couldn't be the way.

Snarling, Ivan continued down the street, a large, grumpy pout gracing his features.

A motorcyclist roared down the street, cursing out the world as it zoomed past Ivan.

Although startling, the encounter was nothing more than another obnoxious noise in the cacophony of the dirty city.

Another motorcyclist zoomed by, the driver tossing a beer bottle a few feet in front of Ivan. It shattered across the stained cement, glass shards shattering around and into cracks.

Ivan glared at the passing motorcyclist.

That was disgusting.

He continued on, slow and steady, taking his time. He was still unemployed, still had no home and no one to worry for him.

At least it wasn't cold.

A third motorcyclist drove by, but this one was different from the others. The pace the driver was at was almost a crawl, slow enough to shutter in tandem with Ivan. The Russian eyed the motorcyclist, a large man with a wicked, lustful smile. The man's bright teeth shinned as he grinned, black goggles hiding his eyes.

The man blew a kiss at Ivan and cackled with raucous laughter at the Russian's expression.

He drove on, out of sight.

Ivan released the breath he was holding.

He was being stupid. He was huge, bigger and mightier than any other person he knew. A bear did not fear a pack of wolves; that was silly.

But the pack came back. Two of the motorcyclists zoomed past him again, coming back the way they came.

Ivan watched them, walking just a little bit faster, foggy mind clearing.

There was that laughter again, the noise a cat makes as it tears the wings off a mauled bird, releasing it to watch the bloodied creature struggle before swatting it again.

The first of the motorcyclists passed him again, but the second kept pace, the same man as before. He wolf whistled and made kissy faces at Ivan.

The Russian walked a bit faster, searching for a safe place to escape.

He was in a residential area. If he screamed would anyone help? Would anyone care?

The motorcyclist made his engine purr with a splutter.

"Good eats!" he sang, voice loud enough to be heard above the roar of the engine.

It was a signal. The second motorcyclist turned with a sharp jerk, heading back for Ivan - driving on top of the sidewalk!

Shit!

The man beside him cackled again, turning to drive Ivan like a sheep into an alley way.

The alley was cramped, Ivan wouldn't have been able to walk side by side with Alfred in it.

Stupid! Now was not the time to be thinking of the blonde!

He continued running, the light from the motorcycle bouncing and reverberating on the grimy walls. It was like an echo chamber, the motorcycle's snarl like a train about to run Ivan down. The putty haired man couldn't even hear his own terrified breath, little less than a scream as the third motorcyclist reappeared, charging down the ally from the exit Ivan was racing to.

Shit!

Ivan couldn't stop or he'd be run over, and if he continued he'd be run over anyway.

His only hope was a filthy dumpster. If he got to that the motorcyclists would have to stop since there wasn't enough room for the pair to pass each other. Ivan could climb on top of it and jump over the motorcyclist and while they were still fumbling to turn their blikes around in the tight passage Ivan would be long gone!

Plan settled Ivan pushed on, pumping his muscles to obey and work as fast as they could.

He neared the dark green dumpster, leaping into the air, climbing on top of the high container.

Yes! This would work.

The first motorcyclist stopped as he planned, but the mocking, cold laughter was still there.

Ivan ignored the fear the man caused, easing his breath in a meditative pause.

This was it.

The second motorcyclist stopped, turning the bike so it was almost wedged between the walls of the ally. The man stopped a bit farther than Ivan would have liked but no matter. He would roll with the circumstances.

Ivan braced his legs and jumped as far as he could, kicking the air for more distance.

"Oh no you don't!" called the third motorcyclist, grabbing Ivan by one of his long legs, yanking the Russian down so he slammed against the ground with an ugly smack.

His body crumbled and skin tore but his bones were strong. Nothing broke.

The first motorcyclist laughed, a high, frightening noise.

Damn it!

The third man tackled Ivan, knocking his head against the ground. Ivan groaned as the man pummeled him, turning Ivan over to punch him in the teeth.

"Easy, easy. Don't damage the fruit. We still need to talk to our little darling," said the first man. The third delivered another punch to Ivan's solid gut, making the large Russian wince.

The third man pulled out a pair of cuffs and locked Ivan's hands in a too tight embrace, the lavender eyes man too dizzy and drunk to fight. The second motorcyclist appeared, stopping close to the first.

"So, what's your name?" asked the first man. He hopped off his bike and took off his gloves, revealing massive hands, dirty and scarred with jagged hang nails.

Ivan didn't answer, struggling with the cuffs and trying to get the third man off his torso. The cackling man road him like a bull.

Alfred!

"Come on, pray to your god. What religion are you? I'd like to know so I can spit on them!"

The man chortled with that high pitched laughter, kicking Ivan at the side of his ribs.

"You're the Haters, yes?" wheezed Ivan, a sinister hatred seeping from his aura in a miasma of vicious anger. They were too easy to say. "You are like pathetic baby girls."

He knew he shouldn't provoke his attackers but he couldn't keep his words behind his lips.

The first man, the leader, kicked Ivan's head in retaliation. The Russian howled, mind spinning.

"Hah, we've been called Haters before but that's not us, no. In fact, I think I'm full of love."

He stepped on Ivan's chest, his boot (so like Alfred's) jabbing his throat. The man leaned down, spitting in Ivan's face as he spoke, "In fact I'm so full of love I became a crusader, irradiating vermin from the streets. I'm the fucking piped piper!"

He pulled Ivan's head up by his short locks, ripping a few hairs as he yanked to slam Ivan's head down.

The other two laughed in mockery, like an audience at a circus, watching as the lion tamer was eaten.

"You have such pretty eyes," the leader grinned, hot breath against Ivan's face, spraying him in thick spit.

"I've never seen that color before!"

The man spat again, in Ivan's eyes. The Russian's body convulsed with disgust but the man just laughed again.

"And such a pretty scarf!"

"Don't touch it!" Ivan cried, scrunching his eyes and thrashing. He tried to punch the man but another held his chuffed hands down. "Don't touch it!"

"Oh, so it's important to you, is it?" laughed the man, dirty, greasy, filthy hands slipping over Ivan's precious, clean, beautiful scarf.

"This way I'll be with you always," his sister said, wrapping the scarf around Ivan's small, boyish shoulders with a kind, protective hand.

"I wonder what kind of thread it's made of," the man on top of him said.

He was getting it dirty.

"You look so cute, Vanya," Katusha beamed, patting Ivan on the head. The young boy giggled, playing with the powdery scarf.

"Hey, Blade, my sister would love that. Could you cut a piece off for me?" said one man. Blade laughed and pulled out a pocket knife.

"Don't! Don't touch it!"

"Big Sister! Big Sister!" Ivan called, running up to his older sister. He had grown in the past years, towering over his not so big sister. Katsusha turned away, trying to hide her tears. "Big Sister?" Ivan cocked his head to the side, pouting. He reached a hand out to touch her shoulder.

Katusha moved out of reach, sniffling into a hancherchif.

"Big Sis-"

"I have to go Vanya. We're not allowed to talk anymore."

"What-"

"Please, Vanya, just go!"

Blade cackled. "Don't ~ You're such a bitch! Don't touch it ~"

The men beside him joined in laughter. "That just makes me want to do it that much more!"

The leader of the group, Blade, held the scarf up, Ivan pulled with it. The Russian could only gape as the man dragged the broken knife across his perfect, shimmering scarf.

The threads tore and frayed, ripping apart like heart strings. Ivan felt tears in his big eyes, baby face contorting in physical agony at the loss.

Rage.

Thunderous rage flashed through his system, heating his muscles. The laughter died away, all Ivan heard was the ghost of his scarf, wailing and crying.

They would pay for this. This act, this hate crime against fabric was more atrocious than rape.

Ivan saw red.

He jerked his hands away from the man who held them, snapping the chain of his handcuffs with a single flick, steel flying away like blast rubble.

"Oh shi-" Blade shouted before Ivan sat up, head-butting the man's throat. Blade gasped for breath as Ivan pushed him off, punching the man's face, breaking his nose. Blood squirted over Ivan's fists and coat.

The other two men charged but Ivan was quick, fueled by adrenaline and sadistic intent. He rolled out of the way of a kick, jumping into a standing position. One of the men continued with the attack, swinging his leg at Ivan.

He blocked the move, grabbing under the man's leg, hoisting him over Ivan's shoulder with the man's own momentum and tossing the thug on the ground. The man gasped, breath lost, but didn't have a chance to get back into the fight, Ivan elbowing him in the gut with all of his weight.

The last man, out of fear, swung his helmet at Ivan's head.

The blow was not enough to wound but got the bear's attention.

In the man's hands was the torn piece of his scarf.

"DON'T TOUCH IT!" Ivan snarled, experience in street fighting taking over his instincts. He tore a rusty pipe off the wall and swung it at the man, water spraying all over the place.

The thug blocked the blow with his arms, but the pain was strong enough to make the man crumple and scream out.

"Don't ever touch it!"

Ivan went crazy, blow after blow hitting the man. His face, his back, his arms, his pathetic boney legs.

The man in front of him was an insect, something to be exterminated - something that needed to die.

Ivan was in hysterics, unable to see though tears and blood splatter.

The bug stopped twitching.

Ivan breathed, rapid, stinging breath.

The heat, the fuel left him. He was cold.

Surveying the damage, Ivan wasn't surprised to see that Blade vanished, cowering into the darkness.

The man he elbowed was still there, moaning in his sleep. Ivan didn't know if the last man was alive anymore.

All that mattered was that his scarf was okay.

He pried open the bloodied man's fingers, still warm with residual life.

The scarf looked terrible. It was a shame, ripped, frayed, muddy, bloody, and as empty as a lifeless doll.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" he mumbled, unable to wrap his frazzled mind around anything else. "No!"

He untied the half still around his neck in an attempt to have the threads reattach themselves.

Ivan's hands shook. He couldn't see the scarf anymore, tears stinging and clouding his eyes.

A few of his tears rolled down his face to splatter onto the halved scarf.

Ivan whipped his face with a dirty sleeve, desperate to stop anymore harm to his dear garment. He scooped it up, pulling the scarf into his coat with the tenderness of a lover. Using the pipe still clutched in his hands he stood. The pipe was dropped, clattering and clanging to the floor.

He had to fix his scarf.

He had to fix his scarf!

Ivan ran, weaving like a drunk but out of weariness rather than actual intoxication.

Where to go? Where to go?

He collapsed in front of the first house he came to, adrenaline leaving his system. All the head and chest injuries he endured were catching up with him.

Ivan pounded on the door.

He couldn't give up now.

Not when his scarf was still so hurt.

He leaned against the door frame, unable to breath quick enough. He pounded again, finding his voice was gone.

The door opened a crack, a face peering out at him with a suspicious gaze.

". . .Help," Ivan said, eyes closing.

Everything went black.


	7. Jailbreak

His vision was terrible, couldn't see a things, and with his God awful internal compass he couldn't remember which was home. He probably should have just called Mattie to pick him up like his brother always told him to when Alfred went out partying but his car was new and shiny. Alfred didn't want to leave it alone in some parking lot.

What if someone robbed him? Or worse - keyed the car!

No, no, no, no gansta was touchin' his baby.

Besides, it was three in the morning. He didn't want to wake up his brother just to take his drunk ass back home. Alfred was a big boy. He proved that with his driver's license.

Alfred giggled.

"Ass, it's such a funny word! Its like Ass-Ass-in. Hehe."

He blinked and rubbed his eyes. There was something there, damn it.

"Stupid friggin' speck."

Alfred spilt his drink, swearing like a sailor as he reached down for it.

There was he flash of an up coming car, a wild honk, and then nothing.

Alfred bolted upright in bed, covered in sweat. The phone was ringing, singing out Lady GaGa's "Just Dance" song. Alfred swept a palm over his eyes, further detaching himself from the haunting memories.

He rolled out of bed (What time was it? Six?) and hopped to the phone, knowing it would take too long to attach his prosthetic.

"Hello and Gooood Morning! Alfred Faaantastic Jones here! How can I be your hero today?" Alfred sang, ever his chipper self.

"Good morning Mr. Jones, this is Officer Zwingli." Vash's voice was precise as always.

"Ah! Hey, Vash, what's up?"

His heart started to pound. Vash only ever called when he had a lead on the Haters. Why would he call this early?

~O~O~O~O~

"No running in the halls!" a nurse called after the sprinting American.

"Sorry! No time!" Alfred shouted back, not even bothering to look back at the poor nurse. He dodged visitors and patients in the hall way. The hospital was more crowded than he thought it would be. An old man shook his withered fist at Alfred as the blond passed.

"No shouting, either!"

"Right, sorry!"

Where was the room? Damn his mapping skills. Was it 101 or 801?

Alfred stopped, scratching his hair. He was lost again. Maybe he should get a doctor.

Nah, that was lame. He could find it himself.

Before the American could march off on what could have been a heroic adventure an angel appeared.

"Kiku!" he squealed like a school girl, startling several nearby patients. He ran to the small Japanese man, reminding himself not to embrace the shy doctor. Kiku jumped like a frightened cat, nearly dropping his clipboard as he exited a patient's room he was just in. He put a calming hand to his heart. Dr. Honda turned to face Alfred, smiling a small polite smile and cursing is jumpy nerves. He'd never become a top surgeon with such nervousness.

"Good morning Mr. Jones. It is good to see you again. I am a bit busy right now, have a good day."

"Wait! Kiku! Do you know where Ivan is?"

The doctor made a face of confusion as Alfred panted, waiting for an answer.

"I am sorry, I don't know who -"

"The big scary Russian guy! The one who should have come in this morning? Braginski! His name is Braginski!"

Kiku thought for a moment but nodded. Alfred could have kissed him he was so happy!

"How is he? Is he okay? Is he missing anything?"

It was common of the hated to gouge out eyes or take limbs.

God he hoped Ivan was okay.

"Physically he is alright," answered Dr. Honda, leading Alfred down the hallway, smiling and nodding to the people who greeted him. "He had a few bruises and minor cuts. Mr. Braginski was kicked repeatedly but his ribs and lungs are fine. He has a minor concussion so we will keep him for observations overnight."

Kiku stopped at the door, blocking Alfred from slipping past. The American was impatient to get into the room.

Why did Kiku stop?

Didn't' he see Alfred was in a hurry to be a hero?

"Mr. Jones, there are some things you have to know before I can let you into this room."

The Japanese man's tone was always professional, serious. He was a stoic person by nature, but this tone, it conjured images of the gravest matters. Kiku's voice better fit that of the grim reaper. Alfred listened, heart pounding again.

"Physically he is stable - he'll recover completely within the week. . . But mentally, mentally Mr. Braginski is unstable. When he was first brought here we had to give him a sedative and tie him to his bed because he was so violent."

Kiku pulled at his shirt collar, uncomfortable with what he was about to say next. Alfred's already clenched heart wavered and sank. "He won't stop crying, and tries to attack anyone who comes near."

Kiku sighed and flipped trough the chart in his hands. "There was no sign of rape but what ever happened in the ally last night was very traumatic. One of the men who attacked him is in critical condition, almost dead. The other is being interrogated as we speak."

Kiku stepped out of the way, allowing Alfred to go on. The doctor cast his gaze to the floor.

"Be careful. If something happens call for help immediately. I am not really suppose to let visitors in the room but he calls for you."

Alfred tried to say something heroic. He really did.

For once, he couldn't think of anything to tell the doctor. No smile, no cheer, no laughter of "don't worry".

He took a breath, charging his faltering courage and walked into the room.

The first thing he was aware of was the babbling Dr. Honda mentioned. Nonsense, Russian mumbles being uttered in a cold, hair rising voice by the mountain of a man at the window.

The second thing the American noticed was the small beeping of a regulator, then the dimness of the lights and the stale hospital smell Alfred had long ago become accustomed to; dust, cleaner, and urine.

Alfred approached Ivan, his prosthetic leg making a dull thud in the quiet of the room. He pulled a chair close to Ivan's bed, all the while watching the faint tell tale sign of life in the Russian's chest rising and falling.

Ivan was on his side, facing the window, his back to Alfred. The mint green sheets were crumpled around his massive form, his gown splayed and exposing the vertebra of his strong (but shivering) back. His massive paws were chained to the bed post in a plastic cuff, not unlike a policeman's.

Alfred gulped.

Ivan was a mess.

The American shuffled in his chair, unsure of what to do next.

". . .Ivan, you okay?" he asked, hands shoved into the pockets of his bomber jacket.

The putty haired man froze, back ridged, breath stopping.

Alfred scratched his head at a furious pace.

"Yeah, dumb question."

"Alfred?"

Ivan's voice was tiny, more fragile than Mathew's. It was heart breaking.

What happened to the strong man to break him so completely?

Alfred felt a wave of fury. He wanted to kill the bastards who had done this. He actually wanted to kill them!

. . .But then the anger was replaced with shame and guilt.

It was his fault Ivan was like this. He couldn't help him in time.

Alfred failed.

"Yeah, its me. Vash just called me a little while ago so I came here as -"

Ivan turned around, lavender eyes red, puffy, and wet with tears. His lovely silver blond hair was matted with grim and sweat, plastered to his cheeks and forehead.

What happened to him?

"- as I could. . ." Alfred finished, unable to turn away.

Ivan's pale cheeks were flushed and covered in thick, ugly burses, lip quivering. His hands jerked when he tried to move them as he continued babbling, crying, sobbing in Russian.

Alfred had no idea what Ivan was saying but the emotion it him like a punch to the gut.

He could remember his brother sobbing like this when he lost his favorite teddy bear, or when Alfred himself endured the loss of his first dog.

Alfred hated when people cried. He felt worthless, useless. He wasn't doing his job. He wasn't being the hero he could be.

The last time he witnessed someone crying so much was when Mathew visited him in the hospital just after he lost his leg.

He didn't like being reminded of that.

"It's okay," Alfred said, standing to put a comforting hand on Ivan's arm. He couldn't think of anything to say but that stupid cliché line. Ivan tried to jerk away but could not with his hands tied. Alfred didn't need to see fresh tears staining his face to know Ivan's intent.

Alfred's hand fell limp.

"Come on, talk to me," he said, taking a seat. Now his voice was shaking.

This was all his fault. If he had let Ivan be the exception to the rule, if he had made sure he got to the park, if he had let Ivan camp out in his house this wouldn't have happened.

"Dr. Honda told me you were calling for me, right?" The man's frightened expression did not change. "Well, your hero is here!" He stuck a pose.

Nothing.

Alfred sighed sitting back in the chair, stretching his long legs. Before Ivan would have giggled and called him an idiot when he did that.

"Tired of hospital food yet?"

Ivan spoke suddenly, voice quiet, harsh, almost violent. He flicked his eyes at a bag on the other side of the room on a table. Alfred stared, trying to process the odd movement.

Ivan repeated the same phrase as before

Alfred stood and inspected the bag. The large man's clothes were in it, newly washed and stain free.

"You want your clothes?" Alfred asked over his shoulder.

Ivan shouted a long strand of words, voice more violent and accusing than before.

What ever it was Ivan wanted the large man was frantic about it. Alfred still had no clue how to begin to understand what was said but by the tone alone he knew it wasn't just the clothes he wanted. Alfred continued searching the bag, finding at the bottom the halved scarf.

Ivan went wild, jerking the bed as he tried to pull away, to retrieve his precious scarf. He was a little scary, Alfred noted. Like Exorcist scary. And Alfred still had nightmares from that movie!

Against his better instincts Alfred walked forward, Ivan becoming more and more crazed with each step. He was a hero, and hero's had to be strong, even when facing scary situations. Fearing for life and limb the blond wrapped the broken scarf around Ivan's neck.

The reaction was almost immediate.

Ivan physically and emotionally calmed, breath easing as he stopped babbling for the first time since Alfred entered the room. He sank in the bed, closing his eyes, soft ashen hair falling into delicate place over his forehead.

Minutes passed, Alfred sitting in his chair and marveling at how at peace Ivan was now.

"So. . .you couldn't just ask for it in English, could ya?"

From the bed Ivan gave a mirth-less laugh. He cracked a lavender eye open, tears no longer drowning it.

"Was I not speaking English?" His accent was thick and his voice sheepish. Alfred wondered if Ivan's accent was this thick when he was sleepy or in the middle of se -

"Nope," Alfred smirked, derailing his Francis tainted mind. He balanced on the back two legs of his chair.

"It kinda seemed like you were possessed. I was just about to run down the hall shouting 'A priest! I need a priest!' I'm sure if we check your chest we'll find 666 tattooed there."

He grinned as Ivan giggled.

"You only say that because your own voice was sold to the devil," mocked the larger man, voice and face turning cheerful and childish again. "I am sure you're fluent in tongues."

"Not as fluent as Francis, I'm sure. He's French after all."

Ivan stared, the comment blowing over his head. Alfred blushed at his own implications, moving into another, unrelated topic.

Ivan and Alfred spoke for over an hour, topics meandering and changing often with the American's easily distracted mind set. Ivan's voice was steady, comfortable despite the circumstances. He brought order to Alfred's sporadic rants.

Before long Kiku came to check up. He was surprised but pleased Ivan was awake and "lucid" meaning responsive and not insane. It was obvious Ivan still had hospital drugs running through his system, the Russian's eyelids drooping but all signs were good. He informed the pair that Officer Zwingli would be in soon to start an investigation. If all went well the cuffs would be removed.

The room was quiet when Kiku left. Talking about what happened the night before had been an unspoken taboo, one that was about to break. The pair locked eyes, Ivan hated that he looked so vulnerable.

Alfred gave his most encouraging smile.

Vash walked into the room, followed by his partner. Alfred stood and shook the Swiss' hand, turning back to face Ivan, gesturing to the weakened man. Ivan tried to smile, but it just came out looking like a sick wince. Alfred was asked politely to leave but Ivan interrupted, saying that he wouldn't speak unless the American stayed. Alfred argued that Ivan should just follow the police's demands but stayed.

The investigation began, vague at first but as Vash asked more questions the tale became more personal. Alfred found himself gripping the arms of his chair, knuckles turning white as he fought urges to both search the streets to make the thugs pay and crawl into bed with his Russian boyfriend to hold him tight, kiss away all the pain and sorrow.

When Ivan reached the part in his story where his scarf was cut the large man stopped. He was very quiet for a long moment, so quiet the members of the room could almost hear each other's pulse.

Ivan's hands trembled. He wanted to hold his scarf. He wanted to touch it and make sure it was okay. Above all he wanted to fix it but he had no idea how to. Ivan couldn't nit, Ivan couldn't sew, but he vowed to learn to fix it.

Part of him just wanted to run home and embrace his older sister and have her repair the scarf; but that was impossible even if he did go home. They weren't allowed to see each other anymore.

Ivan finished the interview, the police satisfied with the information given. No criminal charges were issued, Ivan having acted out in self defense. Vash thanked the pair, reminding Alfred that they would talk again when the officer had more information.

As soon as they left the room Ivan groaned out what Alfred would guess were Russian curses.

Alfred turned to the larger man, trying to decide what to do.

"I have a cousin who can fix it. He sews sweaters all the time so he should be able to fix your scarf in ten seconds flat!" Alfred spat out, willing to say anything to cheer up his boyfriend. Ivan's distant eyes focused, snapping over to Alfred. His expression was blank for a long moment, then hope, joy, excitement, and even apprehension swam through those light orbs.

Ivan looked so beautiful. Even bruised and dirty the Russian was still as enchanting as the devil. He was hansom, beautiful, vulnerable and strong.

Alfred crossed the room to sit next to Ivan. The bear of a man had other ideas, yanking the blond to his feet and onto the bed. Alfred fell onto Ivan, making the putty haired man wince as he hit burses.

He tried to pull away but Ivan held him in place with an iron grip.

It was awkward and uncomfortable but the two wouldn't move from each other for the world. Alfred snuggled into Ivan's laboring chest, trying not to put his whole weight against the Russian.

"Alfred," Ivan said, chest rumbling beneath the blond. "Please. . ." He couldn't find the words to describe his request.

A hug, a kiss? What did one ask for in this situation?

"Your weight. I want to feel you. I want to know you're here."

He wasn't going to cry again., He didn't want to cry again, but he felt his eyes misting over with tears.

He blamed the drugs. They were making him needlessly emotional.

Alfred leaned down on him and kissed Ivan's temples. The American kissed his forehead and lips next, stopping at his eyes, kissing away the tears before they could be shed.

Alfred held to him and let him cry. He didn't slush Ivan, he didn't offer him comforting words, and he didn't try to make him stop no matter how much Ivan himself would give anything to stop crying, to stop looking so weak.

Alfred gave him much more than sweet nothings. He held Ivan tight, reminded the larger man that he was there fore him. He kissed Ivan and accepted him and didn't judge. He didn't try to stop Ivan from crying because he knew Ivan needed to cry, even though Alfred felt his heart breaking at the sight. He wanted to stop the tears, but knew they were part of a complicated healing. It was a bitter necessity like pulling a tooth.

Alfred combed through Ivan's tangled hair with his fingers. The larger man held Alfred tight, sobbing into gentle source of comfort.

~O~O~O~O~

It was hours later when Alfred walked through his front door. He had spent the entire day there, only leaving to get lunch and when visiting hours were over. After Ivan was fished crying Alfred was still trapped in the bigger man's arms. The two fell asleep like that, Ivan exhausted from the day before and Alfred lazy enough to pull off naps. They just chatted for the rest of the day after that.

Alfred strolled through the house, heading straight for the kitchen. The apartment seemed lonelier than usual. It was at times like these he wished his landlord would let him have a dog or a cat so he at least had someone to greet him when he was home.

The blond walked in a daze, unable to keep Ivan from his thoughts even as he cooked left over burgers he rationed from the day before.

Was he sleeping okay? Alfred didn't think he would.

Was he scared to be alone? Alfred would be.

Where would he go after the hospital let him out? How was he to pay for the hospital bills? Alfred didn't think he could.

The American prepared for bed in a slow, lethargic dash, stumbling like he had in the race only a week ago.

Had it really only been that long ago?

Alfred laid in his bed for what felt like hours, just staring at the ceiling, ideas and thoughts swarming through his mind like a hive of wasps. He turned on the T.V in a last ditch effort to drown out the thoughts and get some sleep. Tomorrow was work again. He had to be ready for work, right?

But the ideas wouldn't leave. Plans were made, dangerous, foolish plans that the American was too tired or honestly proud of to reject.

He turned over in his bed, ready for sleep at last.

~O~O~O~O~

It wasn't till halfway through Alfred's lunch break that the hospital called him, announcing Ivan well enough to be discharged. The American told Chell where he was going and jogged to his car, scarfing down a hamburger the whole way.

Time seemed to pass too fast, Alfred already in front of the hospital, parking, and heading to Ivan's room. Upon his arrival the Russian was more than happy, grinning like a happy cherub. He was back in his original clothes, scarf still wrapped around his neck.

"I was on my way out when Dr. Honda told be to wait for you, yes?" he stated, voice pleasant and childish again. Alfred smiled as he let go of the door handle. It was an immense relief to see Ivan acting like his normal self again. The burses were still there but less expressive, though they still stood out against his pale cheeks.

"Yeah, I was just talking with him about how you're doing. Is your head okay?" Alfred walked closer, reaching up to pat the Russian's silky, cleaned strands.

"Yes~ Dr. Honda is very good at helping people with head injuries. Unlike a certain American fool I know, yes?" Ivan chirped, tone playful. At the comment Alfred bristled. That was a low blow.

"Hey! At least I didn't just leave you to die! I did too help you!" Alfred shouted, rearing back, crossing his arms and pouting like an upset teen.

Ivan laughed. He hadn't laughed so hard since before the. . .incident.

"Forgive me, Sunflower, I did not mean to upset you~ yes?" He reached over and tugged at Alfred's cheek like an over-affectionate aunt. Alfred punched the hand away, fighting back a fit of giggles as Ivan's hand moved instead to tickle him.

"Stop it! Don't call me sissy things like Sunflower! We have - no not there, you cheater - important things to - I said stop - to talk about!" Alfred managed to bark out between giggles.

"Oh? Important things? What are they? You can tell Ivan, yes! He can keep secrets!" Ivan assured, taking his hands away from his American boyfriend's side and hips. Alfred gave him a deadpan look, extremely confused with why Ivan was acting so down right squirrelly. He reasoned it was because he was at last freed from the evil hospital.

"Yeah, well, lets talk about it after lunch. Oh, and I need to take you to my cousin's house! He can fix your scarf!" replied Alfred as he walked out of the room, heading for the elevator.

Alfred hadn't taken a second breath before Ivan jumped him, wrapping long, crushing arms around his torso, literally squeezing the life out of him. The blond thought he was being attacked before he felt Ivan nuzzling his face and large nose against the back of his neck.

Ivan was giving him a bear hug.

An affectionate smile found itself on the American's lips, but soon they were turning purple so he slapped Ivan's arm to let him go. The big man got the idea, releasing his lover.

Alfred panted and gasped for breath but smiled up at Ivan, the lavender eyed man looking so tender. Alfred leaned up for a kiss, which Ivan accepted and continued.

There was an "Ehhem!" behind them, a mother glaring at the pair, a small child behind her legs, hiding his face but trying to gawk at the men at the same time. The woman tapped her foot.

"Heh, sorry Ma'am," Alfred apologized, tugging Ivan along. "Hope who ever you're here for gets well soon."

Ivan smirked as his boyfriend pulled him along, hearing the woman mutter in a dejected whisper "Teens and their hormones."

The mighty Russian giggled. Alfred was at least in his mid twenties and Ivan was. . .well, Ivan was older. He'd go with that for now. Perhaps he'd tell Alfred when the blond asked.

Before long they were in Alfred's nasty car and speeding to said American's cousin's house. Although happy his scarf was going to be resurrected, Ivan was not pleased with the dirty car. It was disgusting. He'd have to clean it before he ever stepped foot in it again.

"So what was it you wanted to talk about?" Ivan inquired, trying not to focus on the grime of the car. Little Happy Meal toys cried out from under his feet.

"Oh well. . .I kinda wanted to wait until after the scarf was fixed but I was wondering if you wanted to move in with me?"


	8. Knitting with Barbed Wire

Although neither spoke the car was far from quiet. It puttered with old age and grime, wheezing like an out of tune pipe organ. The car itself jerked over potholes and vibrated like a sleazy motel bed.

Things were awkward to say the least. Alfred kept his eyes on the road, sweating over Ivan's response. He'd tossed and turned all night in preparation for popping the question and he knew they hadn't been dating long but he felt this would be the best for Ivan. How long did people wait before moving in together? Was two weeks too soon?

Oblivious to the American's distress Ivan took his own sweet time being shell shocked.

Alfred wanted him to move in?

Alfred wanted to become one?

He didn't know how to respond, a simple thank you and a peck on the cheek would never suffice.

Nothing seemed to matter anymore; not his cracked ribs or his bruises, or his head injury, or even Alfred's filthy, dirty car.

Ivan leaned over to sneak a kiss from his blond hero (not that he'd ever say that - Alfred had a big enough ego as it was).

"You are stupid, kind but stupid, yes," he whispered cheeks rosy and heart thumping like an excited rabbit.

In his surprise at the sudden jump of affection, Alfred swerved the car. The car next to his honked, the driver saluting the birdie.

Ivan roared with laughter, as Alfred held onto the steering heel until his fingers turned white. Alfred blushed, then glared, trying to ignore how un-cool he just acted.

Ivan laughed again, kissing the blond - if only to see him squirm.

"Not when I'm driving!" Alfred whined, shoving Ivan away like an over affectionate, near three hundred pound dog.

Ivan giggled, slapping away Alfred's hands away to tickle the American's side.

"Stop!" Alfred hissed.

"Red light," Ivan chirped. As expected Alfred slammed down the breaks, jolting both driver and passenger against their seat belts. Ivan continued giggling.

In less than half an hour later Alfred pulled the car into a grungy parking lot out side of a small pub. He jumped out of the car (in the literal sense of the word) and slammed the door shut. The blond took a deep, comforting breath. Ivan followed, closing his door with a soft click, a smile just as tiny and unspoken on his lips.

"Well," Alfred said, allowing the word to hand in the air for affect. "Let's go before my cousin changed his mind. I called in earlier but he's like that. Permanently has a stick up his butt."

Ivan giggled at the blonds' words and allowed himself to be dragged into the pub. An odd sense of dejavu struck the Russian once inside the "Gentlemanly Pirate" - the pub. The room was well lit with antique-styled lamps, and if it weren't for the pub being empty Ivan swore he could hear happily drunken conversations and the clink of glasses on wood. Pirate paraphernalia littered the walls, but in such order the adventurous theme was almost lost.

"You are late," the owner of the pub stated, snapping shut a small golden pocket watch. He walked out from behind the bar stool, gazing at the pair with a scrutinizing stare.

The man was shorter than Alfred and wore well put-together clothes that would be perfectly normal in the closet of a fifty or sixty year old man; though the Brit in front of him was no older than twenty five. Monstrous, thick eyebrows surveyed the room - adding to the man's sharp eyes in a scowl.

Ivan quirked one of his own, slim sized eyebrows at the Brit. Again he was shaken with remembrance. The Russian was very sure he had met the Brit before - his eyebrows were quite recognizable.

Alfred tittered with laughter, but it was sheepish, less courageous than his usual best.

"Haha, sorry. Traffic was a bi -"

Across the room the English man's green eyes flashed. Alfred caught himself, remembering his cousin disproved of "Impolite language that would make any respectable woman faint and likewise any respectable man green with disgust". He stopped in mid sentence, filling the awkward pause with a nervous chuckle.

"Anyway this is the guy I was telling you about. Can you fix his scarf?"

The English man tittered, waggling his finger at Alfred.

"If I can embroider silk I believe I can repair anything. But manners, cousin, manners. First you introduce your family and guest."

Alfred rolled his eyes. Really, Arthur was too formal; he always forced his strict measures on Alfred. Ivan felt a sudden flush of possessiveness.

Alfred was a fool but he was Ivan's fool. The Russian saw no reason for anyone else to tease the blond, it was his job.

"Artie, this is, Ivan. Ivan, this is Arthur."

Arthur rolled his eyes as he extended is hand. The larger man stared at it for a moment before realizing the Brit wanted him to shake it.

"Arthur Kirkland. Sorry, my cousin still as yet to grasp the finer points of an introduction."

Alfred scoffed.

"Ivan Braginski," the Russian affirmed. Then added, "Alfred's boyfriend."

The response was instantaneous, like a gunshot going off in a chapel.

Arthur dropped his gold watch – it rolled away to flop on its side like a beached whale in an empty corner. The Brit gapped like a fish before his face contorted like a raisin. Ivan swore he could see steam puffing out of his ears. It was a terribly amusing expression, making the large man chortle with laughter.

But what was by far the funniest was his Alfred's expression, blushing like Ivan had disrobed him. The American almost shrank at Arthur's stare like he had been hit. Ivan had no sympathy, enjoying his boyfriend's embarrassment far too much to care a lick about his feelings.

Boyfriend. It was official. Announcing it to Arthur was almost like telling a dirty secret to a parent. And all the colorful expressions they made! Ivan could only imagine what the expression would have been if he had deflowered the cute little blond.

"Alfred's what?" Arthur ragged when he gained control of his voice; though it still squeaked with high-pitched accusation. The Brit groaned and pressed a hand to his temple, trying to subdue the forming headache.

"Come on Artie, you promised you wouldn't freak," Alfred urged, pouting. "Remember when Mathew brought home Francis –"

Arthur winced and groaned like he was giving birth. He marched away, snarling curses under his breath.

"Don't remind me. It's taken almost all of this time to wine me off hexing that frog for Mathew's sake." Arthur disappeared into the back room, announcing that he would return with proper knitting tools.

"You never told me your cousin was a bar tender. I will have to become a regular customer, yes~" Ivan chirped once the room was clear.

"No, no!" exclaimed Alfred, flailing his arms. "Artie and I don't get along well as it is! It took me forever to convince him to fix your scarf. If you bug him he'll go back to England and never talk to me again!"

Ivan had to wonder what relationship the two cousins had. They weren't at each other's throats but neither were they welcoming. The large man could see it in their eyes, a festering history of mistrust and betrayal. Ivan was curious to know what caused the tense atmosphere but knew that would dig up his own family's ghosts – a thing he would try to keep from Alfred as long as possible.

So, to keep face Ivan just smiled and pulled a tight arm around his beloved sunflower.

"Ow! Ivan, too tight!" the blond complained, though it was hard not to grin.

They continued play fighting (flirting) until a gruff, un-amused cough interrupted the pair. Arthur sneered at the two; in his arm the knitting supplies and on his nose half moon spectacles. Alfred pulled away, a tiny uncomfortable blush coloring his nose.

"Don't just stand around all day, show me the patient," Arthur insisted, taking a seat and spreading out the tools over the table.

Ivan looked to Alfred, the blond taking a seat opposite Arthur, leaving another spot for his boyfriend. Both blonds stared at the lavender eyed man. It was unnerving. They wanted him to take off his scarf.

He never took off his scarf. It was as much a part of him as his skin.

Katyusha had given it to him before Natalia had even been born. It had seen him through all his joys and overwhelming pains.

The scarf had been his one and only friend for many years.

But. . . that was why it had to be fixed. Ivan owed it that much.

He stripped off the scarf with the delicate hand of a glass weaver.

It was Ivan's least favorite feeling in the world – a naked neck. He hated it, the chill, the itch, the feeling of being watched it caused.

But he'd endure it for the scarf.

Alfred offered his hand but Ivan refused it. He cringed when Arthur laid the broken cloth flat. At the rift the fabric was frayed and stringy like it had been clawed by cats. Arthur tittered like a nanny.

"What on earth did you do to it? Put it though a paper shredder?"

Ivan snatched the scarf back snarling.

"I'll fix it myself, yes."

He was halfway across the room when Alfred pulled him back, again surprising Ivan with his strength.

"Calm down. Arthur's the best at what he does. Just calm down." Alfred rested a hand on the putty haired man's hip, relaxing him and guiding him back to the table.

With a few more soothing words Ivan relinquished his scarf again. Arthur lined up the pieces once more this time looking over it as if expecting the Russian to leap over the table and attack.

If the Brit insulted his scarf again Ivan had half the mind to do just that.

A few more tense moments of inspection passed before Arthur made another noise. He picked up the scarf and started the long, laborious task of mending it. It was only moments later when Alfred started talking. The American was cursed with the gift of gab. He couldn't sit still long before rambling to both Arthur and Ivan. The Brit commented here and there but remained as impassive as Ivan was.

Alfred was sure Ivan stopped breathing minutes ago, watching Arthur patch up the scarf with unwavering devotion. The Brit's fingers moved with hypnotic grace; a stitch here, a tuck there.

It seemed that in no time at all the scarf was already mended.

"Like a band-aid," the Brit noted when he was finished. Ivan grabbed for the scarf, almost knocking Arthur over with his pair of gorilla arms.

"Whoa! Ivan, settle man, settle!" Alfred charged, holding Ivan back. Arthur huffed and smoothed out his ruffled clothes. He glared at Alfred, the American flashing a sheepish smile.

Ivan was blind to the world around him.

The scarf was near perfect. The string Arthur used was so close to the scarf's original color it disappeared into the snowy fabric. Katyusha would be so happy to see how great it looked.

Ignoring the petty argument the two blonds were having, Ivan stood and grabbed the two in a bone crushing bear hug. He swung the pair around in the same motion one would wring a towel.

"Thank you, friend Arthur! Thank you, yes~!"

He giggled and kissed Alfred hard, ignoring both blonds as they complained and tried to break free.

"Put me down you dolt! A simple thank you would suffice!" the Brit wailed.

"Ivan, buddy, you're breaking my ribs!"

The large bear dropped Arthur but kept Alfred in his arms, pressing insistent kisses to the American's forehead.

Arthur grumbled and shot the duo a scathing glare that neither saw, too wrapped in their own world. The Brit cracked his back and scoffed, packing up his things.

"We should celebrate, yes!" Ivan sang with a gleeful cheer. "Come, Alfred, let us drink!"

"Put me down first! I can't think like this!"

"For the love of God, just go!" Arthur spat, unable to take anymore of his cousin's . . . tomfoolery. He was going to have to nurse a head ache and he hadn't even drunk anything yet.

The two quieted to stare at the seething Brit. He was like a cat, hissing and spitting as he swatted at rambunctious kittens.

Or perhaps he was just a very young grouchy old man.

"Come on, Ivan. Lets get some cheeseburgers, I'm starving," Alfred pleaded, trying to get the Russian out of the bar before Arthur went on one of his temper tantrums.

Ivan dropped the American, inspecting the scarf again as he said their goodbyes.

"Thanks for everything, Arthur."

The words were soft and echoed with past memories. Thank yous that should have been said long ago but never were.

The Brit focused on the grain of the table then the floor before speaking, back to his cousin.

"Shove off, will you? You're such a bother."

Despite the unkind words, Alfred could see Arthur's ears reddening with blush.

The American flashed a stellar grin. "We should get together again some time. Just you, me, and Mattie. I'm sure he'd love to do it."

Arthur's side of the room was quiet. The Brit didn't move; didn't breath. The only sound in the pub came from a clock.

"That would be fun. Shall I call Mathew to set up the date? I doubt you could do it, being as unreliable as you are."

"Hey, I've changed a lot since . . . since the accident."

The weight of Alfred's words was crushing.

"Yeah, I can see that," Arthur agreed after a moment. He stared at Alfred from over his shoulder, eyes softer than they had been through the whole meeting. "I can tell."

~O~O~O~O~

Although neither Ivan nor Alfred spoke the car ride to the American's house was far from quiet. Alfred had the radio booming rap music again. Ivan, being too disgusted with the rank stench of the car, rolled down a window. Fast, viper-like wind streamed into the car, rattling the scattered trash as it yowled in their ears.

"Thank you, Ivan."

The comment was sudden. Ivan would have believed he imagined it if not for the meaningful look the blond had as he studied the road.

"Hmm, what for?" The large man was baffled. If anything he should thank Alfred for getting Arthur to fix his scarf. It was obvious the blonds did not see eye to eye.

At his comment Alfred laughed, though it quickly turned into a sigh. He shook his head in a self-pitying grimace. Ivan did not like the action. He liked to think of Alfred as a strong man, an equal to Ivan. Alfred at the moment was neither.

"I used you," the blond stated, voice as nonchalant as the weather. "Arthur and I hadn't really spoken since the accident. That and the issue with Francis. He stopped answering my calls and eventually I just figured he moved back to England. It wasn't until the night I picked you up I knew he was still here. You passed out in front of the "Gentlemanly Pirate". When we were kids he always went on and on about how he was a Gentlemanly Pirate so I figured it had to be him."

Alfred laughed again. It was a detached noise. It didn't fit the happy American at all.

"And then when you needed your scarf fixed I remembered that Arthur's hobby was embroidery and girly things like that. When I was a kid he would make these really ugly sweaters for me every Christmas. And I mean ugly! And they smelled like cat and were itchy!"

Despite the horror of his words Alfred smiled and laughed more truly than he had all day. It was a relief to hear the noise, like an assuring breath of a loved one. It was a reminder that things would be alright. Things weren't as complicated as everyone made them out to be.

Ivan liked the laugh.

"So. . .thank you for letting me talk to Arthur. I really missed him."

Ivan twiddled with his scarf as silence swam back over the two. It was uncomfortable, especially with the foul mouthed music. He would have to teach Alfred the difference between a song and noise when they got to his house.

Oh yeah. . .he was moving in with Alfred.


	9. Home is where the Heartburn is

"Ivan, this is it."

The large Russian was stirred from his thoughts as Alfred pulled into an apartment complex's parking lot. If Alfred was nervous the American hid it well, grinning and jumping out of the car. He bounced around like an excited dog – the uneven pacing reminded Ivan of the blond's prosthetic.

"Come on, my apartment is this way!" Alfred took his hand, skipping off in what almost seemed a random direction.

The apartment complex was a modest middle class community. The buildings were layered on an open grid with room between for plants and sidewalk. The buildings themselves were two stories, each with their own sidewalk and potted plants. Alfred said that a community pool was not far away.

Over the course of their journey to the blond's apartment, only one other person was spotted, an older gentleman who n the middle of painting on his porch. Alfred waved and the older man grunted with acknowledgement. He studied Ivan as they passed.

It was the same look Ivan was given no mater where he went.

Suspicion.

Worry.

Fear.

It seemed the only person who was immune to his terrifying persona was Alfred (and his sister Natalya but that was another story). Alfred was honest, open, and caring. He was an idiot but he meant well. He meddled and pried, and was obtuse; but he was sweet all the same. He really was a mutt who wouldn't go away.

"Well, this is it!" announced Alfred, spinning around to face Ivan. "I live on the second floor so we have to be a bit quiet."

Ivan snorted. He doubted the blond could ever be quiet. Even at a funeral Alfred would still be energetic.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Alfred fumed, pouting as he climbed the stairs. It was obvious he had a bit of trouble because of his leg.

"Nothing, Sunspot. Was only thinking good things about you," was Ivan's giddy reply. Alfred scoffed at the remark as he fought with his keychain (there were at least five keys and twice as many key chains from hamburgers with googly eyes to space aliens).

"Here we go!" The door opened without a sound, Alfred marched through it as if on parade. "Welcome to your new home, Ivan."

The first emotion Ivan had upon entering the small, two bedroom apartment was horror.

The apartment was filthy with clutter. Stacks of food and toy wrappers were piled so high they blocked out the sunlight from the windows. Furniture was buried under a mountain of trash, old pizza boxes and rolled up paper. The smell was stale and suffocating – like Alfred had aired out the room with hamburger scented candles.

What little Ivan could actually see of the room was a bigger than necessary TV, a game console, and a coffee table. Cleared paths trailed all over the room, mounds of trash threatening to collapse onto it. The room broke off into a war-like kitchen (complete with crusty food stains) and to the left a hall way opened up.

It was disgusting. Even when Alfred assured him he cleaned out spoilable trash at regular intervals Ivan still wanted to burn it down.

And he wanted Ivan to live here?

"I don't have much food in the kitchen because I mostly eat at New Hope but you're free to forage."

Ivan strained to maintain his smile. He was homeless but he doubted he'd ever lower his living standards this much.

Alfred's smile was so full of jubilance it was almost painful for Ivan to look at him.

Weary Ivan tried to return the gesture.

"Tere's only on bathroom so we'll have to share,but I do have a guestroom where I've kept my collection. You can sleep there. Or the couch if you want the T.V."

He knew he'd regret it, but he had to ask.

"Collection?"

~O~O~O~O~

Alfred was obsessed.

Alfred was obsessed to a level that was unhealthy.

If Ivan thought that the front of the house was bad he had no words for the guest bedroom.

The shelves, the cabinet, the walls, the floor-it was all covered in Happy Meal toys.

It was a swirling hellish galaxy of colors, plastics, and plush toys. All of them grinning, smiling, and laughing at Ivan. There were so many they engulfed the floor several layers high. The sight was more horrifying than anything the Russian had seen since moving to America (his scarf getting ripped didn't count). What was worse was that Ivan could tell they had been played with.

"Something special, isn't it?" Alfred grinned. The American was glowing with pride. He was damn proud of his collection and loved to show it off. "I've kept every toy since I was a kid! And I have the third biggest collection in the country!"

God. That meant people out there had more? At least there were only two.

"So what do you think? Isn't it awesome?"

"I think you need help, yes."

"Hmm? I guess I do need to organize it more." Alfred smiled at the room, making a happy sigh like a mother. "What do you want for dinner? How 'bout pizza? Pizza sounds good." He hopped off, whistling as he went.

Ivan was left alone in the room of horrors. His cheerful façade fell as he glared at the chaotic mass of toys. No way in hell was he sleeping in here. With a final icy look he left the room, making sure the door was tightly shut.

"Hey, Ivan, what do you want on your pizza?" the blond called from the kitchen, house phone in hand.

Ivan didn't care for pizza but he knew if he left the selection up to Alfred the meal would have everything but the kitchen sink on it. It would even look like the dreaded "collection" room.

Wanting to keep things simple Ivan asked for pepperoni only. Alfred stuck out his tongue and said that was boring. He ordered everything on the menu anyway.

They waited on the couch for the pizza to arrive, Alfred again talking about everything and nothing. Ivan was quiet as he listened, his comments few. Much of the Russian's life had been spent in silence. It was nice to have someone to talk to, to fill the void.

Now if only he'd clean up the house.

The pizza arrived; Alfred bounced off the couch to answer the door. When he returned he cleared a space on the coffee table (knocking over the trash and old magazines – one on alien and Bigfoot discoveries). The blond lay back down and turned on the TV, flipping through the channels until he came to a cartoon he liked.

What the American did next was less usual.

He rolled up his pant leg and unstrapped his false leg, massaging the stump of flesh. Next he unwound the cloths around the stump. It was agitated and red from being in the prosthetic all day. Alfred stared at the stub for a long moment before reaching forward to the coffee table. He pushed aside more trash and found some lotion. He slathered his aching stub and wiped the rest of the lotion off on his pants.

Alfred reached forward again, this time for the pizza. His left leg nudged into Ivan's, making the American blink then blush as he realized the Russian was there. Ivan's eyes hadn't moved from Alfred's lack of leg since it had been exposed.

"I . . . sorry. I haven't had company in a while," the blond explained, taking a slice of pizza.

Ivan shrugged, reaching for a pizza slice. He picked off all the toppings but cheese and piled them onto another slice. "It is your house. You have free reign to do as you please."

Alfred nodded but it was less enthusiastic than normal.

The blond continued talking. It was awkward but Ivan appreciated the effort. As time passed eating dinner became less and less of a necessity. Ivan found himself staring.

Not at the leg, no.

At his lips.

Alfred's lips glistened as he ate the icky, complicated, Americanized excuse for an Italian meal. They were red from whatever pepper was on the pizza and as tempting as the urge to pull a fire alarm. Ivan stared at those lips the way a jumper watches a crowd from atop a building; longing, regret, guilt, nervousness, and above all else excitement.

"Ivan? Heeelooo? You're hearin' me, right? I asked if -"

The lavender eyed man didn't let Alfred finish, leaning forward to capture the blond's lips before they could waste themselves on another pointless word.

Alfred's blue eyes flashed with surprise before closing. He breathed into the kiss as Ivan dwelled deeper, trying to get a moan from his younger lover. In contact with his lips Ivan's own burned from the pepper toppings. Unfortunately the American tasted like pizza and the one hundred toppings on it. Another unfortunate fact was that Alfred smelled like grease and lotion – not a pleasant mix.

The Russian would have pulled away in disgust if it weren't for what Alfred did next. His arms wrapped around Ivan's neck. While he was distracted with Alfred's greasy fingers playing with his ashen hair the American flipped their positions so that he topped. Ivan didn't mind for the moment, taking in the sudden display of power from his disabled lover.

It was mean, but he liked seeing such an underdog strive for equality with him. The attempt was almost laughable. Ivan snaked his hands under Alfred's shirt to his chest. The blond gasped at the touch and broke the kiss. Ivan grinned, biting Alfred's neck.

"H-hey! Don't bite!" he flushed, pulling away. Ivan tilted his head and smirked, look as innocent as a sinner on trial.

"But Sunspot, if I don't mark you other boys might try to steal what is mine."

The hands pilled away from the shirt to group the American's large rump. Too many burgers and doughnuts made his ass almost look Spanish. Then again the man was probably a mutt in terms of ethnicity.

"Gahh! M-m-mark?"

Ivan giggled as Alfred's face turned as red as the peppers on his pizza.

Alfred pulled away and glared, sitting on Ivan's lap. His stub felt odd against Ivan's thigh. The Russian continued smiling at his lover's antics.

"There will be no marking of any kind. . . At all." Alfred's gaze and lips were firm as he said this.

The larger man laughed voice loud and humorous. Alfred pouted, making Ivan's laugher all the more intense. In retaliation Alfred jabbed Ivan's side with a stiff finger. Ivan's chuckle came out in a wince, but the smile never left his lips. He reached up to weave his large fingers through Alfred's short locks.

"Sunspot, soon I will have you begging for my mark. That is a promise, yes."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Last time I let you east pizza. And stop calling me Sunspot. What am I a dog?"

"Woof," Ivan replied, patting Alfred's head. "But it's so cute. And it fits you~! You're bright and obnoxious like a sunspot!" Alfred smacked the side of Ivan's arm in retaliation. Ivan just continued to giggle. "So abusive! See? The nickname suits you well, yes!"

"Oh, just shut up," Alfred snapped, crossing his arms. His glare was soft and his nose dusted pink. It was obvious he wasn't really mad.

Really, he was too cute.

"Are you done with the pizza?" The blond took a last slice and closed the box.  
"I am not done with you."

Alfred rolled his eyes again. When he finished the slice he wiped off his hands and strapped the prosthetic bank on. Alfred took the pizza box into the kitchen to seal it away in the fridge.

When he retuned he stared at Ivan from the kitchen doorway.

"Ready for bed?"

"If you are, yes."

The tone was casual. Alfred stretched and yawned as he walked. It was earlier than when most people turning in for bed but Alfred worked early in the morning. He needed all the rest he could get.

"I have some old pajamas if you want – but I don't know if they're big enough for you."

"I am alright. I sleep in, as you say, the buff." Although the comment was half true, the lie was well worth Alfred's vibrant blush.

"W-well make sure you put some clothes on before you leave your room."

"Only if you insist, yes."

The two laughed, Ivan's more honest and Alfred's one of disbelief.

"Well get some good sleep Ivan. If you wake up after six five I'm at New Hope. Tomorrow I'll get you a spare key to the house – oh I forgot to ask! Do you have a job right now?"

"No, I was fired for drinking. That was the same night you kicked me out of New Hope."

Ivan's words were cheerful but the comment sot straight though Alfred's chest. That had been an awful night for the both of them. It surprised Alfred that Ivan was speaking about it so openly. It also worried him a little.

"Oh. . . well I can help you job search when you're feeling better. Remember to take your medicine tomorrow before breakfast. I can make a quick meal for you if you'd like, then you can just rest for the rest of the day. Kiku said you should stay off your feet for a few days."

"Alfred," Ivan breathed, voice irritated. He wrapped his arms around the blond and held the man to his chest. The American froze.

This was the first time Ivan called him by his name. His name on Ivan's lips warmed his chest. It was silly, but this simple fact made Alfred feel giddy. Ivan pressed a sharp kiss to the base of his neck. Alfred jumped at the kiss, blushing again.

"Alfred. Please shut up. I don't want to hear about jobs right now."

He pressed another kiss to Alfred's neck and another before the American could catch his breath. Ivan spun the blond around, kissing Alfred's adorable lips again. The Russian's large nose rubbed into Allred's as they kissed, his breath tickling the blond.

Swept up in the surreal feeling Alfred fell completely into the kiss.

It had been a while since he had been so intimate with another person. Every touch, every caress, every nip felt like it was the first time. Alfred's blush was dark and expressive.

Bursts of passion went off in Ivan's mind.

He wanted more.

He wanted all of Alfred.

He didn't want to share any of this generous man; this angel.

Ivan licked a trail down to the juncture between Alfred's shoulder and neck. He nipped at the spot before sucking, determined to leave a mark.

"I-Ivan –" the American panted. The desperation in his voice encouraged Ivan, hand groping. He was rewarded with another gasp from his lover.

Alfred couldn't get enough air. He was barley aware of anything but Ivan, the stale hospital scent that clung to him, his huge hands, his lips. He didn't register the pain of having his back shoved against his own hall or when his prosthetic leg groaned in protest.

Alfred's blue eye squeezed in shut in pleasure, breath ragged as Ivan's hands wandered his body. Massive, calloused hands pinched his skin as they trailed up his shirt. Ivan's fingertips brushed against the blond's chest, pinching and teasing skin.

"Ah-hahh."

Ivan's second hand snuck away, squeezing Alfred's hips and love handles before dwelling farther.

"Wait. W-wait."

His reluctance went unnoticed by Ivan. The Russian's hands continued searching, teasing warm fingertips pressed against Alfred's crotch.

"Stop."

The fingers pressed further, wrapping themselves around Alfred.

"I said stop!"

Alfred regained control of himself, pulling Ivan's hands out of his pants before shoving the larger man away. The American slowed his breath, trying to act the part of being in control of the situation (all he wanted to do was collapse against the wall).

Ivan watched the distressed blond from where he had been pushed to. Alfred was upset. He was acting like a cornered bird, ready to snap and flail his talons.

"Alfred –"

The American went ridged at his voice.

No.

Alfred wasn't supposed to be afraid of him. Alfred was supposed to be immune to his scariness . . . right? He was open, and kind, and brave and . . . and shrinking away.

Anger flushed through Ivan's veins but was quickly drained as the reality of Alfred's rejection became apparent.

No. He was supposed to be big and strong as him . . . why would he run?

"I . . . sleep well, yes?" Ivan amended, pulling away and heading for the couch.

Alfred stayed in the hallway for a moment longer. Had that all really just happened? Ivan and he almost . . . But then he froze up and chased him away. Nothing made sense anymore. Alfred just needed to get some sleep.

He freshened up in the bathroom before retreating to his room. Dragging a hand over his face he undressed himself, flopping on the bed. He unstrapped his prosthetic, letting the plastic fall to the ground. Alfred wiggled into a comfortable position and fell asleep.


	10. Building Intimacy

When Ivan woke the next morning, Alfred was already gone. The air in the apartment was stuffy and warm. Ivan found himself slick with sticky sweat. He sneezed and glared at the offensive room. Light tried in vain to peek through the litter obscured windows. Around Ivan was an itchy blue blanket, now coated in sweat. He supposed he had Alfred to blame for that.

The apartment was disgusting. As soon as the American came home Ivan would demand that he cleaned.

Ivan smiled at the thought. Home. Ivan had a home again. Life was far from perfect, but having a stable place to sleep each night was more encouraging then anything. He never really noticed how much having a home or not could affect a person. He made a mental note to be thankful for a roof over his head from now on.

Ivan sighed and slumped back into the couch. A stray spring jabbed at his back. Ivan groaned, sitting back up. The coffee table in front of the couch had been cleared while Ivan slept – it seemed Alfred wasn't a complete loss. The only things left on the table were a neat pile of magazines, three remotes, a bottle of Ivan's pills Dr. Honda told him to take once every six hours, a glass of suspicious water next to that, and a curious bean, teddy-bear. Ivan stared at the bear, confusion heavy in his dark eyes.

The bear was white and small enough to fit in the palm of his large hands. It was in a stereotype teddy shape – not at all resembling a real bear. Curiouser was that the bear's button nose was painted in the colors of the Russian flag. The flag was also sewn over the left side where the heart would be if the bear was made of flesh and not beads. Clipped to the bear's ear like an obscene earring was a heart shape tag that read: Ty.

Ivan glared at the toy as it stared at him with its soulless, black bead eyes.

Attached to the bear's foot was a sticky note written in such sloppy chicken scratch it could only be Alfred's. Ivan took the note, struggling for a moment to translate it.

'Hey Big Guy! I tried to wake you up but you snarled at me. SCARY! Feel free to watch TV and eat but don't leave the house. Kiku would kill me. See you at 6 tonight!

XOXO"

Ivan stared at the note.

Alfred was an idiot, of that he was sure of.

~O~O~O~O~

Four thirty that afternoon, Francis grabbed Alfred by his elbow, pulling the blond over to where he was cooking. Despite the predatory look Francis was giving him, Alfred bounced in place with the mischief of a ferret. All about the kitchen volunteers cooked, cleaned, and worked. But by this once stove, Francis' personal favorite, no one passed. The two were alone amongst the dozen or so workers.

At times like this, Francis liked to chat with the leader of New Hope as he worked. By nature Francis was talkative, Alfred even more so. The two could speak privately about the trivial and important without fear of being overhead (though the first time had been an interrogation on Alfred's part to whether or not Francis was acceptable for Mathew).

"Settle down, Mon amie, and tell me what has you acting so frisky," Francis demanded with an easy chuckle.

Alfred pulled a sour face. "Eww. Frisky sounds weird. And I am not."

"You are if I say so. You've been skipping around all day like a cupid. Is it something to do with your giant lover?"

Alfred flushed pink, swatting Francis' hands away. "No. Can't a guy just be happy?"

"Not if I say so. Now tell me about your lover. Mathieu said something about the hospital. . ." Francis trailed off as he spoke. Alfred fidgeted when the older blonde gasped, clutching an elegant hand to his chest. "Did you confess you love at his bedside? Alfred, I did not believe you could be so romantic!"

The Frenchman patted Alfred's head, making the American squirm and shoo him away.

"That's not what happened!"

Francis pulled a face this time, disappointed and miffed at the American's response.

"Oh? You can go then." He released Alfred to return to his cooking. The blonde American pouted. He got what he wanted with the dropped subject but Alfred missed the attention. Above all else Alfred loved attention.

And Francis knew it.

"Yes, mon amie?" he asked when Alfred cleared his throat.

"Ivan moved in with me yesterday so I'm –"

"I knew it!" Francis shouted, grabbing Alfred into a forced dance. "I knew it had to be something big! Tell big brother Francis everything! Have you made la amour yet? How is he in bed? And why are you still here? Go home and make love to your roommate."

Alfred struggled from the elder blonde's embrace, blushing with red embarrassment.

"Jeeze! Shut up, Francis! Tell the whole world, why don't ya." Francis smirked, collecting his breath to shout. Alfred yelped again, clasping his hands over Francis' lips. "Shh! Haven't you heard of a figure of speech? And no, we haven't gone that far yet! He just got out of the hospital. And besides, I don't know him well enough yet."

Francis pulled Alfred's hands away with an exasperated look. "But sex teaches partners about each other. It is beautiful and very healthy. For instance, the first time I made love to Ma –"

"Eww! Don't tell me about my brother's sex life!"

Francis rolled his eyes but continued his argument. "Sex brings a couple together, physically and metaphorically. It is a spiritual experience, Alfred. How long has it been since your last time?"

"That's personal," Alfred hissed.

"Maybe so, but I'd wager quite a while by how sensitive you are, you big prude."

"Just because you're ready to jump into someone's pants at first sight doesn't mean I am."

Alfred huffed and straightened out his jacket. Francis tended to his bubbling soup when it was apparent Alfred wasn't going to escape.

"I want something special. Something like what you and Mattie have. Or Tino and Berwald. You guys care about each other, and your relationship is based on more than just sex. And I swear if you argue that you're with my brother for just that, I'll punch you through the wall."

Francis raised a hand in mock surrender as his other stirred the soup.

"Fear not, I love Mathieu with all my heart and not just my libido."

Alfred made a scoff of laughter but continued. "Yeah, sex would be great, but I want more. I want a friend. Someone who I can share dreams with."

Francis chuckled as he stirred. "Oh, you Americans and your dreams. So passionate."

"Come on, Francis. I'm being serious."

"I know, mon amie. And so am I. Tell me the truth, are you nervous because of your leg?"

Alfred sighed, leaning against a near wall. He wet is lips to stall.

"Hell yes. The last time was with someone she freaked out when I took off my leg and left me hard. I called her but she wouldn't pick up. Then I got a text saying 'Sorry Al. I can't do this anymore. Plz don't hate me'."

For a long time, the only noise was of the bubbling soup, the flicker of the fire it cooked under, and the scrape of the spoon against the pot.

"Tell me, Alfred. What's this bitch's name?"

Alfred laughed, shaking his head. "Nah. It's okay. That was a while ago. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Obviously it does matter if it's keeping you from making love to someone who's interested."

"Let's just drop it," Alfred groaned, palming his eyes to show his friend he was more than done with the conversation.

"No. I think not. Your Ivan obviously does not mind your leg. Have you seen the lust in his eyes when your are near?"

"Yeah. I have," Alfred said, getting angry now. If last night was anything to go by, Ivan definitely lusted for him. "She was the same way. She said she didn't care about my leg and that she liked me for who I am. I told her about the accident and the next day she left me, so sorry for not jumping into bed!"

"Alfred," Francis spoke in a calm, soft as smoke voice. "I am sorry for bringing up such horrible memories. Forgive me." He pulled Alfred close in an embrace, kissing the top of his head by the cowlick. "You are precious, and disserve someone who understands that."

"Shut up," Alfred muttered but did not squirm away. He liked hugs anyway. Francis laughed, kissing him again.

"So precious. When you get like this you remind me so much of mon cherieMathieu."

The Frenchman tilted Alfred's chin for another, more intimate kiss, but Alfred wriggled himself free.

"Hey! Watch it! You better not cheat on my brother! Punching you through the wall is still an option. And besides, I'm with Ivan now."

" . . . It's not really cheating when it's the same face . . . In any case Mathieu and I will be at your house this weekend for dinner."

The idea of free food from Francis was too good an offer to refuse.

~O~O~O~O~

"Ivan, I'm home," Alfred called into the dark that was his apartment. The blonde stared out into the lightless halls. Although Alfred had been living alone for the past six years the quiet of the apartment did not comfort him. Ivan was living here now, and living things made noises.

The only noise Alfred could hear was his neighbor's TV playing too loud from downstairs and children giggling together outside.

Alfred switched to alert, but remained calm. There were no signs of a break in so no reason to flip out. Perhaps Ivan was just sleeping.

"I brought dinner, Ivan!" Alfred called again, making his way to the living room. To his horror and amazement the room was empty. He could see out the windows to the dark sky outside. What remained of the trash heap was sorted into small piles by the TV; collectables, letters, and magazines.

Flabbergasted, Alfred almost dropped the dinner. He hadn't seen the apartment look this clean since he moved in. It was both wonderful and a nightmare.

All his stuff . . . it was gone. . .

"Ivan . . . are you around?"

There was a noise from the couch. Alfred drew closer to investigate. His heart melted when he spotted Ivan asleep on the couch. The man looked like he had passed out, the sleeves of his jacket rolled up from when he was working. Ivan snoozed on his side, hair shading his eyes and nose making a gusty whistle of sound. His expression just made him look al the more like an angry grizzly bear.

Alfred laughed, and joined his boyfriend on the couch. He leaned over Ivan and blew on the larger man's nose. Ivan, acting on instinct, bolted upright, smacking both their heads together.

"Oww!"

"Shit!"

Ivan glared at Alfred as he winced. Both men clutched their growing burse. The blonde chuckled over his squirm of fear. Ivan's eyes looked lethal.

"Hey Ivan, hungry?" He held the plastic bag with leftovers from New Hope in front of Ivan's face. Ivan looked like he was about to say something (no doubt terrible considering the dark aura he produced) when Alfred interrupted.

"It's soup."

That got Ivan's attention. The large man nodded with mute acceptance before collapsing back onto the couch. He sighed, and shaded his eyes with a massive hand. Alfred swooped down to place a light kiss where they knocked heads.

"Alright, I'll go heat it up." He hopped off the couch to the kitchen. The blonde whistled as he worked, proud of himself that he remembered Ivan liked soup.

"Wow! You even cleaned the kitchen! Kiku's gonna flip when he finds out all the work you weren't suppose to do."

"I had no choice. I feared that if I slept I would be buried by a trash pile and suffocate," Ivan called back from the couch.

His very logical complaint was met with another peel of laughter from Alfred

"I had no idea if you even owned trash bags so I had to ask your neighbor for some. The man acted like I was going to kill him. It made me very sad, yes."

He heard Alfred laughing again, so he continued with his story, grinning himself.

"I came back later for more trash bags and to ask where the dumpster was. He nearly had a heart attack when he saw me. And on the way back from the dumpster I was turned around and had to ask for directions. I am sure your neighbors called the police."

"If they did I'll protect you," Alfred assured, walking back into the room. He zeroed in and focused on the bowl of soup, spilling only a little as he sat next to Ivan. The Russian snorted but accepted the bowl.

"Hey! It's true! I'm the hero so I have to protect the innocent."

Ivan snorted again, rolling his eyes. He sipped the soup, trying not to moan over it like a dog – or Alfred – would. Francis was a genius when it came to cooking.

"I never know which eye to look at," Alfred said after a moment in a tone so dead serious Ivan almost laughed the soup out of his nose.

"What eye?" he asked when he regained himself.

"The old guy's. The neighbor downstairs who you asked for trash bags. He's got this lazy eye but it switched from left to right so I never know what to look at. I usually just stare at his nose but I think he glares at me."

Ivan laughed again, shaking his head. He could see Alfred watching his out of the corner of his eye.

"Something wrong?" he asked. Alfred shook his head, smiling.

"Thank you for cleaning up this room and the kitchen."

"Think nothing of it. I refuse to live in a sty."

Alfred smiled and slouched into a comfortable spot on the couch. "Anything I can do for you?"

"No, you have done enough."

Alfred gave him a home, paid for his medical bills, and fed him. Ivan was safe and secure. He was already taken care of. And he didn't like to be pampered. He felt it was the least he could do after that Alfred did for him.

"Are you sure?" the blond continued to pry. "After everything you did today does it hurt anywhere?"

Ivan was going to reply in the negative, but caught his words on his tongue. Making the most innocent expression he could, he gave his answer. "Here," he said, touching his hand to his lips.

Both were still for a long moment before Alfred leaned forward, brushing lips with Ivan in a small but personal kiss.

Neither spoke of the night before, each too content in the other's presence.

Over the next week, Alfred took Ivan back to the hospital for a check up to make sure everything was healing correctly. Although Ivan refused and complained, Alfred was relentless. Ivan was released with a clean bill of health, and asked for vodka to celebrate. Alfred was reluctant, but agreed. He didn't want Ivan to feel anymore pain than he already was with his withdrawal.

The day after that Alfred helped Ivan with cleaning the rest of the house. The American whined and complained about hard labor before collapsing on his bed out of exhaustion.

That was the first night they slept in the same bed. When Alfred's alarm clock went off in the morning, both woke in each other's arms - air was tense as they stared at each other. The alarm buzzed as light streamed through newly cleaned windows. Alfred stared at Ivan, sleepy but alert with his usually flat hair fluffed up and curled at the ends because of sleep.

They started the day with a kiss.

"Mattie and Francis will be over later tonight," Alfred said on his way out the door. "Use the computer to job search. You aren't at New Hope anymore but I still want you on your feet."

Again Ivan was left alone in the now somewhat clean apparent. It was at times like this Ivan felt the most irritated; like a dog waiting for its master to come home. Perhaps he should job search. Now that the house was livable it was time he made his own money.

Besides, money meant he could buy more vodka.

Ivan crammed himself into the tiny master bedroom where the computer huddled the far wall like an exile. The archaic device was crowed by old documents and food crumbs. Disgusted with yet another mess to clean, Ivan began searching.

Ivan tapped the side of the desk with annoyed fingertips. The computer ran slow, each screen taking what felt like hours to load. His searches yielded little to no real results. Everything he came across demanded experience or college education. Ivan, for the most part, had neither.

Frustrated and getting more irritated than he wanted to be before noon, Ivan retreated from the computer.

~O~O~O~O~

Twenty eight minutes late, the buzzer to Alfred's apartment announced the arrival of Mathew and Francis. Alfred jogged to the door, a happy grin on his face. Ivan listened from the kitchen as he kept an eye on the kettle in front of him. He managed to convince Alfred that they should welcome their guests with traditional Russian tea. The afternoon was spent in a rush to find good enough tea packets and cleaning the kettle Alfred forgot he had. By the looks of it, the kettle had been used once – no doubt when Alfred's cousin cooked tea the day he gave it to the blonde.

Alfred pulled a face when Ivan mentioned tea, but watched the preparation with child-like enthusiasm. So easy to please.

"Are we in the right house?" Francis asked from the doorway. Alfred made an obnoxious but endearing laugh.

"I've never seen your apartment so clean," Mathew commented with a naive awe. "Good job Al."

"Thanks! It was really hard – I thought I was goanna die!"

Ivan heard Alfred skip down the hall, heavy feet thumping at the floor with a grace rarely see beyond anything with less than five tangled legs.

"Ivan, they're here!" Alfred cheered as he peeked into the kitchen from behind a corner.

As if he hadn't noticed.

Ivan smiled and nodded to him, encouraging the blonde to race down the hall again like an adventurous child.

"How long did it take you to clean the apartment?"

"Pretty much the whole week. Ivan did most of the work when I was at New Hope but I helped out when I could."

Ivan took a calming breath as he left the kitchen. Now was as good a time as any to make an entrance.

"The two of you did a great job."

"Yeah! The whole thing is clean!"

Ivan studied the "family" from the threshold of the kitchen. Alfred's fist pumped in the air, voice booming with energy as he spoke, getting louder and louder till Ivan feared the man in the apartment below would complain again. Francis stood opposite Alfred, persona cool and collected, like he just walked off a fashion runway. As he listened to Alfred's story, the Frenchman helped his lover out of his overcoat, revealing a slim red hoodie. His fingers lingered in spots like the shoulder and hip. Francis, conscious or not, was sending physical messages to his boyfriend.

You are loved.

I can't keep away from you.

It was an emotional intimacy that could care less about sex. Ivan felt like he was watching something private, but the brushes seemed second nature. The pair was used to this comfort, the touch. It was something they did so regularly, they probably didn't even realize it was happening.

Would Alfred let him do that?

Would Alfred even want it?

The blonde in question glanced Ivan's way. Their eyes met and a smile that could blind the sun was felt all the way from where he was to Ivan. Ivan felt lighter at the look. It made the whole room brighter. The chill was gone.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and Ivan pulled away out of embarrassment.

He was being stupid. That's all.

Alfred, like the blonde was attuned to some psychic medium, reached out and held to Ivan's hand. He offered another melting smile, their fingers entwining. Alfred held tight, net letting go even when Ivan tried to pull away again. The sudden possessiveness his partner displayed made Ivan's gaze stoop with pleasure.

How cute. Alfred though Ivan was his. The thought tickled Ivan's skin. Being possessed was a wonderful thing . . .to be wanted . . . to be loved.

Ivan tightened the embrace of their hands. He had to let Alfred know he was the Russian's possession as well.

Alfred, childish as always, tightened his grip again in challenge.

Never one to back down, Ivan increased his grip till the American wined in pain.

"Al, everything alright?" Mathew asked when his coat was off. Francis stifled a laugh, smirking at the pair.

"Nah, nothin' wrong," Alfred replied, tugging away his hand to blow on it. "Damn, you squeeze hard."

Ivan giggled, grasping Alfred's hand again. He kissed the newly formed burse, icy lips stinging Alfred's skin with a biting pleasure.

"That's not the only thing I do hard," he whispered to Alfred in the kiss.

On cue, the blonde burst into a blush like a fire alarm, marching over to Francis and Mathew with a long, awkward gate. Ivan continued his dark laugh, watching Alfred large rump as he walked.

So cute.

"So, what'd you bring to eat?" Alfred asked, managing to keep his voice from straining. Ivan was impressed.

"Honestly, mon amie, we were planning to go out to eat."

"We didn't know you cleaned the house – otherwise we would have brought over food," Mathew amended. He looked a little sheepish at the answer. "Sorry if you cooked anything."

"Hey, don't worry. Going out it cool. We should just drink the tea Ivan made." Despite his words Alfred made another gagging face. No matter what, he hated tea. It always reminded him of stuffy old Arthur. Francis rolled his eyes as he smacked Alfred's head with a light thump. "Owww! What was that for?"

"Show more respect for your lover's cooking," Francis chided. Then, with a grand gesture, he ushered Mathew into the apartment like he owned it.

Alfred pouted but followed. He glanced to Ivan and began to apologize but the Russian shook the gesture away. As long as he didn't have to eat yucky hamburgers he could live with Alfred not liking his tea.

But he would have to explain to Francis that he didn't want the Frenchman hitting Alfred. Ivan didn't like to share his possessions, but he would make an exception today. With his blonde's infectious mood, Ivan was feeling charitable.

They drank the honey-stained tea in relative silence. Alfred and Mathew chatted about recent events, Francis' hand splayed across the young Canadian's knee. Ivan sat opposite the group on a spare chair. He felt a bit like an outsider until Alfred sat in his lap, forcing his tea on the bigger man. Alfred took one sip of the liquid before pulling an exaggerated face of agony, sticking out his tongue. Ivan wasn't insulted as he was amused, wrapping one arm around Alfred's middle as his other hand balanced the tea.

"Shall we away?" Francis suggested after Mathew's and Alfred's conversations grew stagnant. Ivan smiled, enjoying his second cup. His older sister had been the one to teach him how to make tea. The drink never failed to cheer him. He'd have to write to her soon – she worried so easily.

"Yeah, I'm hungry!" Alfred cheered, squirming his way from Ivan's grasp. He shrugged on his favorite jacket and grinned like a toddler. He picked up the keys to his car but Mathew interjected, suggesting they all take one car to save on time and gas. Although Ivan did not like the idea of being jammed into a car with three other men, Alfred agreed without thought, tossing the keys back onto the coffee table.

Ivan would have to educate him later on leaving important things in plain sight.

Alfred bounded out of sight and down the stairs, followed by his nervous but excited looking brother and a chuckling Francis.

"Come, you will not want to miss this," the blonde purred, blue eyes shining with mischief. Ivan frowned, locking the door behind him with a key Alfred gave him the day before.

Alfred stood at the bottom of the staircase, picking his jaw up from the ground. Ivan watched at the blonde shift through several stages of euphoria and jealously. He danced in place, pointed, and whistled. Alfred bounced to Ivan, tugging on his arm with a sharp jerk as he pointed with the energy of a nova.

"Look, Ivan, look!" he exclaimed with a glass shattering pitch. Ivan was almost forced off balance by Alfred's tugs. "Isn't that the sexiest car, ever!"

He ran off again for an up-close inspection of the shiny blue car. Although Ivan wasn't much of a car fan, he admired the sleek, polished look of the vehicle. It glittered in the streetlight, leather interior as comfortable as a worriless cloud. Any car enthusiast would be a puddle of giggling goo – like Alfred was now.

Beside Ivan, Francis laughed, a prideful grin on his lips. "Alfred, any idea who's car this is?"

"If you say it's yours, I'm kicking you, dude. This car's awesome." The American took a step back to study the car with awe. He acted like seeing the car was a spiritual event. "Seriously, is it yours, dude? 'Cause this thing's too expensive to belong to any of my neighbors."

Mathew fidgeted next to Francis. He blushed as he pulled a classy looking key with a red, white, and blue lance on it.

"No way," Alfred moaned, marching up to his brother. Within the next several seconds Alfred cried out with such glee dogs started barking. From a nearby building a neighbor shouted for the giddy American to shut up. "What the hell, Francis?" Alfred breathed, smacking the chef in a tight hug. "You can't buy me this!"

Francis just shook his head.

"I've been meaning to spoil you for a while now as a thank you for letting me steal mon cherie Mathieu's heart." Mathew fidgeted but beamed at his brother. "You've been driving that old car as long as I've known you. Mathieu tells me you refuse to spend money on a new car for some bizarre reason. Besides, now you and your lover can enjoy frisky car sex without worry of filth like in your old car, no?"

Alfred blushed to his ear as he jogged away from Francis. He looked at Ivan and the Russian gave him the biggest, most encouraging smile he could muster. Alfred flushed further, coughing. He wondered back to the car, blush lingering as he studied the new car. Ivan glanced in Francis' direction. The chef grinned and winked. Ivan smiled with gratitude, planning how best to use the gift – and soon.


End file.
